


Desperate Times

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Ambiguous Morality, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ben's perspective, Breeding, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Feels, Feral Behavior, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homelessness, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Knotting, Marks, Masturbation, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Muteness, Nesting, Panty Kink, Poverty, Pregnancy, Size Difference, Time Jump, Unplanned Pregnancy, feral!rey, for now, not really meant as a dark fic but YMMV, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: Ben Solo finds an omega, abandoned and afraid and well into her heat.Rey needs someone to finally love her.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Yo waddup it's your girl, back again with content of absolutely no literary value.

It’s a dreary day, the kind that covers the abandoned warehouses of Greenpoint in fog and makes him feel lethargic. Ben runs a hand through his hair and considers going back inside. He’s just finished disrupting a street fair with his daily run, and he can just _feel_ the rain coming.

He’s about to start walking home when he hears it: the whine of an animal in pain, high-pitched and broken. He freezes. Something—some quality about it—sounds _so_ familiar. Ben wracks his brain to remember where he’s heard the sound before. He comes up blank. He looks around, semi-frantic, but sees only oblivious shoppers.  

_Did no one else hear that?_

Ben wants to beat the thunderstorm home, but he just can’t let it go. Hearing the noise awakened something in him; he doesn’t know why, but he _needs_ to find its source. His blood feels hotter in his veins somehow. His heart beats faster and his eyes narrow. He stalks down the sidewalk, guessing the direction of the noise.

He’s halfway to crossing a narrow street when he hears it again. It’s closer this time, a long, desperate cry that makes his heart hurt. Suddenly, he knows where he’s heard that sound before: as a young alpha in health class.

It’s the sound of an omega crying her way through a particularly painful heat.

Ben feels a little guilty that the realization shoots straight to his cock, but he can’t help it. He puffs up, ready to challenge any alpha he encounters. He needs that omega in his arms— _now_ —at any cost.

Turning, he rushes down the alleyway the cries come from. He rounds the corner of a large dumpster that obscures his view and—

and—

Where his heart used to heart, it now absolutely _breaks_. This is no alleyway tryst; there’s no alpha to confront or fight for dominance. Instead he finds a small omega, curled up and mewling, all alone. Her hands clutch at her belly and shiny slick coats the entirety of her lower half, making the thin shorts she wears cling to her skin. She rests on a thin stack of broken-down cardboard boxes, sides torn to tiny shreds in what he’s sure was a desperate attempt to make some semblance of a warm, downy nest.

He remembers being taught how to make a nesting kit. In ninth grade, a teacher assigned it as homework for the alpha section. Ben had filled his box with every soft, fluffy thing he could find; he even slept without his own blanket for a week. He wanted, more than anything, to be a good alpha—to provide.

It’s clear that no one’s ever provided for this omega—not if she ended up here, seeing out her heat alone, next to trash, like she herself is garbage.

It makes him _furious_.

“Where’s your alpha?”

He very much resents that it comes out rough and gravelly instead of kind and gentle.

The little omega jumps, apparently in too much pain to have scented him. Her eyes, brown and beautiful, blow wide. She scurries backwards against a grimy brick wall, fear etched in her features.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, stepping forward slowly, offering out his hand. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

She doesn’t respond, and he can understand why. Most of the world is populated with betas, and omegas are far rarer than even alphas. It’s not as uncommon as it should be for an alpha to become aggressive—or even violent—in pursuit of a mate. He can hardly blame her for worrying, even if he wouldn’t dream of it.

“It’s okay, I’m a friend.”

She looks between him and his outstretched hand. She’s a mousy little thing, lithe frame slightly tanned. Her brunette locks are dirty and tousled and fall to just below her shoulders.

“You’re very beautiful. I’d like to help you through your heat.”

She doesn’t respond, only whimpers fearfully, and Ben feels his resolve waning. He can smell her—he can smell her _slick_ —and he needs it more than anything else. He takes another step forward, eager to prove that he’s not a threat—

She hisses, louder and fiercer than he knew such a small creature could.

_Fuck._

It’s the sign of an omega in extreme distress—of feeling completely cornered. Guilt weighs heavily on him.

“Please,” Ben hums like he knows omegas like, “I only want to help. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

It’s a little bit unfair: he knows she is. He can see it in the way her cheeks are lightly hollowed, suspects it’s part of why her heat cramps are particularly bad. She must be exhausted.

“Please—let me help you.”

Something in her eyes shift. He takes a chance.

“Can I pick you up?”

She stares at him for a long while. She nods—only a little bit, almost imperceptibly.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He scoops her up in his arms and wastes no time in hurrying home, showering her in whatever praise he can. He tells her she’s pretty, she’s sweet, that she’s a good omega. He reassures her that he won’t hurt her, that he’s going to help her. Ben does his best to purr all the way home.

Truthfully, he doesn’t think she believes him—and the fact that he’s at full attention in his jeans isn’t helping his mood any. Still, he’s thrilled for the opportunity to prove it.

It’s pandemonium when they get into his apartment. He’s fetched a bottled water and a quick snack faster than he knew was possible, carrying her into the bathroom with the items still in her lap.

She sits, gingerly, like she’s afraid to take up too much space, on his counter. The water and protein bar are gone in a blink.

Ben adjusts the temperature of the shower—not too hot to overheat an already-feverish omega, not too cold to make him shiver—and tosses his shirt aside before shirking his pants and boxers in one go.

She stares, first at the expanse of his chest, then between his legs. She draws her knees up to her chest; little pinpricks of obvious fear fill her eyes.

“It’ll fit.”

She shakes her head. His rut has risen to meet her heat, and he’s larger than normal now—which, as an alpha, is large to begin with. His cock juts upwards, nearly purple with need and shiny with pre-cum.

“I promise. It won’t hurt.”

If she believes him, she doesn’t show it.

He approaches, slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves, and hooks his thumb into the waistband of her shorts. She stretches out her legs slowly, cautiously, allowing him to pull them off. Her shirt—a camisole, a size or two too small for her—goes next. She whimpers when nude and covers herself with her arms.

It’s cute, really. He can’t help but smile, even with all the tension filling the room. He goes to raise a hand to stroke the side of her face, but she flinches.

A pang of sadness worms its way into his belly; he’d love to give a piece of his mind to whoever made her so afraid.

“You’re okay,” he promises, inching closer and bending at the waist. His lips find her gland; he licks a long stripe, ecstatic to taste her, and she finally relaxes in his grip. Ben’s hand snakes down to his cock. He strokes once, twice, trying to take the edge off as his hormones mix with hers and comfort her.

_You’re safe. You’re protected. Alpha is here._

He grows heavier in his hand. He speeds up, slicking the head of his cock in the fluid leaking from the tip until he can’t take it anymore. He grips the base of his shaft firmly and reaches to tug on his balls.

_Not yet._

“Good omega,” he coos, lifting the pheromone-drunk little creature to his chest. He supports her with one arm, using the other to bat aside the shower curtain. “Such a good omega.”

She lets out a tiny chirp when the warm water hits her back. It’s not quite the happy warble that he wants desperately to hear, but it makes him puff with pride nonetheless.

Ben knows they don’t have time for the heavy petting he wants to warm up with. She needs a knot, and she needed it _yesterday_. He huffs, suckling hard on her gland so she doesn’t panic. He strokes his cock once through her folds, which are as soft and wet as he imagined, earning a needy little moan from the omega. He lines himself up with her entrance, thrusts, and allows gravity to help him sink her body down onto his length.

His vision blurs, celestial bodies align—all of it. He would think he’d gone to heaven if he believed in it. She’s impossibly hot around him, so wet with slick that she takes him easily. He thanks his rut for preventing immediate orgasm.

It is, by far, the best thing he’s ever felt.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. So perfect and so tight.”

Ben tries to hold still for a moment. She wiggles and whines in his arms, needing time to adjust. It’s torture to hold steady; he braces himself against the shower wall with his other arm.

He waits as patiently as he can for her, pressure building painfully in his spine. “You’re so good for me,” he pants against her neck, licking her gland over and over so her scent lingers heavy in his mouth. She’s perfect, he thinks, light and sweet like a mix of lily of the valley and jasmine.

“I have to move.” She vocalizes her complaints in the forms of little whimpers, but he can’t help it any longer. “I know, I’m sorry, but I have to move.”

He thrusts into her, harder than he means to but completely blinded by need.

“Fuck,” he pants, “you have a perfect little pussy. Did you know that?”

She squirms again, no doubt growing anxious without his mouth on her. He holds her tight; some omegas try to bolt during sex, compelled by a self-preservation instinct to avoid being mated.

He thinks he might die if she ever left him.

“Such a sweet little omega.”

He finds his rhythm after a few more hard thrusts, working his way inside her tight opening inch by inch. Ben pushes her against the wall, drenching himself in the process, and runs his free hand up and down her sides.

“Good omega,” he murmurs, delivering a particularly hard thrust that allows him to bury himself to the hilt. “Shhhh, good omega. There you go. Right where you belong.”

The sound of wet skin slapping wet skin reverberates throughout the bathroom as he drives into her, but he’s long gone deaf to it. His focus is entirely on her—of holding her, of possessing her, making her his—and the sensations of being inside.

He laves her gland until she becomes docile and limp in his arms, content to take everything he gives. Her slick coats his thighs and gets washed away by the stream of water, only to coat them again a second later. It’s a perfect moment, the kind he wishes he could experience forever.

Ben feels the event horizon of his orgasm approaching. Something tingles at the base of his spine; his balls tighten close to his body. He knows he’s close.

“Fuck.” He plants a kiss on her neck. “I’m gonna knot you,” he promises, voice thick with lust, “right now. Popping a big knot just for you.”

The fleshy bulb at the base of his cock swells with blood, the sensitivity too much. He swells inside of her, easily fighting her feeble, instinctual attempts to avoid the knot. He keeps her flush to his base, entire length sheathed inside her, until they’re locked.

“Good omega.”

He knows it will almost assuredly result in a pregnancy, but he doesn’t mind. He’s willing to do whatever he needs to—get a new job, work longer hours, join the mafia, anything at all. He allows himself to fantasize, just for a moment, of coming home to a happy wife and healthy pups.

 _Family_.

He can’t make it a reality fast enough.

Ben clutches the warbling omega to his chest and comes.


	2. Two

Ben awakes to dull pain, one arm slumped over a warm body next to him. He blinks drowsily. He must have fallen asleep as soon as he took her to bed. He can’t have been out long, though, given that she’s still tied up on his knot.

The pain comes again, this time sharper with the stretch of skin. The man grimaces and glances down. Their bodies—tanned skin engulfing pale—are still connected. The omega across from him, however, shows no sign of post-mating relief. Instead, her brown eyes are wild. She’s pressed her hands flat on the mattress and tugs, backwards, attempting to free herself from his knot.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sleepy. He reaches, hand fumbling, to pet her.

The omega makes a piercing noise. It’s high-pitched and defensive and nothing at all like the reaction he’d expect. She nips his hand.

Ben finds that his brain processes it slowly—first with a thick layer of disbelief, then with an unintentional wave of anger. Some quiet voice in the back of his head demands obedience; it wants a quiet, docile creature content to snuggle in bed, happily take his knot, and allow him to doze off.

Now he understands why you’re supposed to knot omegas from behind.

“ _Shit_ —bad omega.”

It slips out before he can stop it—before he even _thinks_. The effect is immediate, however brief. Her face drops; eyes that once betrayed anxious fear now reflect a deep hurt. Every feature on her seems to slump, from shoulders that fall to knees that grow weak.

Just as quickly as her mood swings one way, it swings back the other. She kicks out, planting her palms behind her, and makes an even more concerted effort to escape.

“Okay, okay, no: this is what we’re _not_ gonna do.” Ben—now wide awake—wraps his arms around the struggling girl and rolls onto her, careful not to press down with the bulk of his weight. His hips move with hers to avoid the painful tugging.

There’s a whimper, and a whine, and heavy breathing. Maybe the noises come from them both.

He stills after a moment, blowing loose strands of hair out of his face. She’s less squirmy like this, though the moral implications of holding her down have him feeling less than the greatest.

He leans in to nuzzle her gland.

He stays like this a while, nose buried in the crook of her neck, licking gently over the sensitive skin, until she seems placated.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. “And I know it’s probably a little uncomfortable for you.”

He knotted a beta once, back when he was a teenager and didn’t have the same grasp of biology. It had been intensely painful for the girl, whose body wasn’t equipped to stretch and lubricate the way that was needed. He’d felt awful then, of course, but he’d never really thought about how it would feel to an omega.

When Ben did knot—which was often, if he was being honest—it was usually inside the omega sleeve that he kept in a bedside drawer. He’d bought it on recommendation from a friend; it seemed like every alpha had one, if not just as a punchline (though he was confident that even the guys who joked around went home and tried it, seriously, at least once).  

“Haven’t you ever played with a knot toy?”

She stares at him; he wonders if she even understands what he’s asking. Then, with just as much acuity, she shakes her head.

“I’ll get you one, then.”

His throat bobs.

 _I_.

 _I’ll_ get you one.

The thought that they could be in that kind of relationship—the kind where he buys her things because she doesn’t have them, because he’s her alpha—makes his heart pound. The very tips of his ears glow red.

He stares at her a moment. Tousled curls frame her face, still wet from their partial shower. Something warms in his belly.

“Will you tell me your name now?”

He tries to ask gently, tries to stroke gently down her sides.

The omega stares for a long moment; he thinks he sees her lips quiver.

Then, stubbornness returning, she shakes her head.

“Still no?”

Another stunted shake.

“I’m sure it’s something very pretty. What am I supposed to call you if you won’t tell me your name?”

She shrugs like it’s not her problem. He supposes it isn’t.

Ben stifles a sigh. He doesn’t want to make her more afraid, doesn’t want her to think he’s disappointed in _her_. He picks her up and clutches her close to his chest, feeling his knot beginning to deflate. When it does, he knows their combined mess—slick and cum—will slide right out of her. He doesn’t want to make a mess in the bed, not when he hasn’t even had the chance to put towels down. As a young, naïve alpha who no doubt thought lots of omega sex would be in his future, he’d bought a mattress protector; he’s never used it. Now, finally, it’s time. He’ll tuck it over the four corners of the bed before the next wave of her heat sets in.

In the meantime, though, it’s best if they find themselves in the shower when he slips out of her.

He’s able to lift her off his knot before long. He sets her down gently, little feet on shower tiles, and hands her soap, shampoo, conditioner. Ben runs water again, this time adjusting the dial up to a warmer setting.

He watches, quietly, captivated, as the little creature slides her hand between her thighs. It comes up glistening—coated in a mix of shiny, translucent slick and whiter, opaque cum—and she stares. And stares, and stares. It travels down her thighs, reaching her inner knees. She makes a strange sound: a soft little whimper of confusion and distress that makes him want to hold her.

Ben wants nothing more than to join her in the tub and hold her close, but he knows—for whatever heartbreaking reason—that she doesn’t want him to. So, instead, he leans against the counter, cleaning himself with a warm, wet towel. He watches silently as she sits down on the floor of the shower, spreads her knees, and holds the handheld showerhead between her legs insistently. Swirls of white—his potential pups—leave the safety of her body and circle the drain. Ben swallows his objections.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben isn’t too surprised when she stays in the shower a while. She’s probably lathering her hair or enjoying the warmth—at least, that’s what he convinces himself to assuage some of the guilt. She _will_ be happy here: he’ll make sure of it.

He busies himself in the kitchen. Omegas in heat are ravenously hungry and thirsty. They need double or triple the regular caloric intake to offset the energy and fluids spent mating—and even more to adequately prepare for pups. He wonders, chest tightening, just how many meals she missed while on the streets. Considering her size, many. She’ll need extra nutrition—extra _care_ —to reach a healthy weight, let alone if he wants to ensure a healthy litter.

Ben takes out the stack of Tupperware that he uses to bring lunch to work. He lays out a pan and turns the heat on high, adding a dab of butter in the middle. Cutting boards line his counter. He finds himself working on auto-pilot before long. The pheromones that fill his apartment now—the smell of her, of them—fogs his mind and helps him work with singular purpose. Eggs are scrambled; they’ll give her protein. Fruit is cut; they’ll provide necessary sugars for metabolizing. Before long, he turns an entire pineapple into little squares that he can hand-feed her. Or, at least, that he _hopes_ to.

Ben hauls a pack of bottled waters into his bedroom. He sets it down next to the side furthest from the door. _Her_ side, of course. That way, if there’s ever an intruder, he’s the first one threatened. He won’t let anyone get through him, obviously. No one will harm his mate— _er_ , well, his omega. No one, not ever.

His chest puffs up. He doesn’t notice.

He crosses the threshold to his closest, where he digs around for a moment. His hands close around an old box, dusty and worn, and he pulls it out. It takes him a moment to remove all the tape and wrappings. When he finally manages and pulls the flaps apart, he gazes down at it: _it_ , the small note he’d written on scalloped cardstock as a senior in high school, back when he still practiced calligraphy.

_To a very special omega._

Ben spends a long, quiet moment just staring at it. A little bit of warmth flutters in his belly. That’s her—the little creature in the room next to his. She’s here now. She’s with him. He’s finally found her.

He strips the bed, first, and covers it with a plastic mattress protector. He tops that with an absorption pad—it’s made from the same material that they use for period panties, the kind that wicks moisture—and covers that with a thick bottom sheet. He tosses the top sheet aside. He never liked those; they never seemed to do anything but get all tangled up at the foot of the bed.

Then, slowly, almost reverently, he tips the box over. Soft things spill out and cover the bed. There’s a throw blanket with down sewn on either side; there’s a large comforter that’s been sealed, air-tight, but will fluff up nicely with some proper primping. There’s more—stuffed animals and pillows and other nice things—and Ben takes a step back.

He assesses his younger self’s work, sucking in a breath as he does. It’s a decent nesting kit, at least. He might have changed a few things about it—there are some items he’d like to add—but it’s a nice start. He rubs his hands together before lifting the first item to his gland. He nuzzles against it, leaving behind his scent. The man repeats the process with every item. An alpha’s scent is supposed to make an omega feel safe and protected. She is; he just hopes she’ll come to believe it, too.

He feels a little out of his element, walking around the bed, rearranging pillows and blankets and soft things. Truthfully, he knows very little about how omegas like their nests—and every omega is different. Still, he does his best to guess. This blanket looks nice here; that one looks good over there. He arranges, and rearranges, and fluffs the materials. Slowly, a ring forms around the edge of the bed. It looks soft, he thinks, though he doesn’t dare climb in to find out.

Instead, he knocks gently on the door to the bathroom. No answer greets him, but he didn’t expect one. Ben pushes the door open slowly—he doesn’t want to frighten her—and steps into the room. It’s steamed up now, mirrors foggy, and the omega stares. She’s looking at him from underneath wet hair, little pieces of it stuck to her face, and he thinks—just for the briefest moment—that he sees a hint of a smile.

He approaches slowly. She smells good: a little like him, a lot like his soap, his shampoo. Her little fingers and toes are wrinkled from being in the water too long. He finds himself grinning, fondness swelling in his heart. He reaches out for her, slowly, and purrs when she doesn’t pull back from him. He closes his arms around her and does his best to make it feel like a warm, safe embrace—not the oppressive trap of which she seems to live in perpetual fear.

Her skin presses against his, flushed extra warm by her heat. He strokes her back, just once, too nervous to press his luck any further. He pulls her up, resting her on his hip, and wraps a fluffy, oversized towel around her form.

He has a nest with her name on it.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets voted off the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> light tw for brief mentions of casual misogyny (mostly implied)

Ben usually resents his designation. He resents all of it, really: how an otherwise straightforward day is so easily railroaded by a misplaced scent, how instinct and raw lust dictate too much of his life. He hates how he’s almost predetermined to be aggressive; he hates how easily and often courting turns violent.

It seems like a story makes the news every other night.

He is, however, sometimes grateful. He’s grateful, for instance, that he always seems to know what to do in a crisis.

He is _especially_ grateful that she seems to know what to do with the poor excuse for a nest.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “I tried.”

The omega doesn’t say anything, only skirts around the edge of the bed. She tugs a blanket here, smooths another out there. She rearranges the pillows he pillaged from every room in the apartment. He finds that it takes a while—several iterations, apparently—for an omega to construct her nest. She climbs onto the bed and sits cross-legged in the center, which he hopes is a good sign. She stills for a long moment, face scrunched up in thought. Then she moves again, appearing to have made up her mind, and tosses a small pillow out of the nest.

It must not have been good enough.

“Sorry,” he hears himself say again. It’s lower and quieter like he’s done something wrong, offended her somehow. It’s a ridiculous situation, really; he hardly would’ve expected himself to end up here. If you’d asked him a few days ago, he probably would’ve said he’d be jerking off or reading or really _anything else_.

Ben bends to pick up the small pillow. Its fabric is cross-stitched with a coarse yarn, the product of one of his mother’s many arts and crafts phases. He tries to understand why it’s been ejected, turning it over in his hands a few times. It’s too scratchy, maybe; perhaps it smells a little weird, like a strange combination between his former and current selves.

He sniffs it, awkwardly, just once. He doesn’t smell anything out of place.

“Are you… good?” More silence. “Do you need help?”

She doesn’t, obviously. She’s busy fixing _his_ mistakes. His throat bobs; he tries to suffocate the feeling that he’s doing this all wrong.

Ben leans back against a dresser drawer, setting the small pillow aside. He watches, silently, as the omega puts finishing touches on the nest that stretches the entire width of his bed. It’s amazing, he thinks, the intensity with which she’s thrown herself into setting it right.

A tingle creeps up his spine; he can’t help but think that she would be a great mother.

He suppresses the pleased groan that threatens to surface from somewhere more primal. She fluffs one of the pillows, equally consumed by her own private thoughts.

She finishes a moment later—well, he _thinks_ she’s done—and curls up. There’s a happy chirp, faint but bright, followed by absolute _preening_. He leans in, breathless, and watches her close her eyes, smack her lips together, and snuggle.

It’s a perfect moment, really, even from there. Even just watching her.

He hates to disturb her; he only hopes the promise of food is enough to make up for it.

“Hey,” he starts, delicately, placing a tray down on the bedside table after retrieving it from the kitchen. “That looks like a nice nest.”

The omega stirs. At first, only brown eyes peek above the fleece blanket she snuggles beneath. Then, slowly, she sits up.

“Hungry?”

There’s a timid nod.

“Cool, cool,” he shoves his hands in his pockets, failing to come up with something more convincing. “So, uh, I’m gonna come in now—”

He moves to climb in beside her; he manages to get a single knee down before she hisses at him.

It’s less frightened than the last one—angrier—and it riles him up, too.

“Hey,” he points at her, a little more aggressive than he really means to, “you’re being a little bit of an asshole. And you’re taking up my bed. _My_ bed.”

The omega glares at him, fire in her eyes. It would be kind of adorable if she wasn’t being so impossible.

She clutches a sheet close to her chest.

 _You’re disturbing the peace of my nest_.

She doesn’t need to say it for him to know that’s what she’s thinking.

Ben straightens up after a minute. He runs his hands through his hair, fingers interlocking behind his head. He huffs.

“You’re so good at making me feel like the asshole. _Me_.”

His eye twitches the way it does when he’s frustrated. He gestures, palms open, searching for words that don’t come to him. He stammers.

“I just—I don’t—I don’t get it. I don’t get you. You come in here, all hopeless and cute and shit—you fucking _rip my heart out_ —and then you just,” he waves his hands, “you just ignore me.”

She stares at him. It should deter him, he knows that. She’s sad, and lonely, and probably still frightened from whatever circumstances led to her abandonment. He knows all of it.

He feels like he’s having a temper tantrum that he just can’t manage to stop.

“I’m supposed to, you know,” he waves again, “be allowed in the nest. _Or whatever_. All that shit smells like me anyway. You’re nesting in a bunch of shit that smells like me, so I don’t get why _I’m_ not allowed in.”

The omega doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t seem to be affected by his rant at all, which makes him crazier than he already feels.

She reaches over to the nightstand and takes a bowl of fruit in hand. She pops a blueberry into her mouth and looks at him expectantly.

“Is this your schtick? Is this what you do?”

She doesn’t dignify the comment with an answer, only scrounges around in the bowl for another berry.

Ben sets his jaw. It was a mean thing to say, and he knows it.

He stands still for a moment, willing the mood to change. Then, after a while, he tosses his hands up with a sigh.

“This conversation isn’t finished. We’re not done talking, you and I.”

Well, _he_ isn’t done talking.

 

* * *

 

He feels more than incidentally dramatic when he hits enter.

> About 308,000,000 results (0.53 seconds) for ‘kicked out of my own nest’

Ben feels almost relieved when none of the results seem relevant. He clicks around and reads a few articles, which mostly chronicle the challenges of sleep-training pups.

 _My wife hasn’t been able to sleep recently_ , one reads. _The pups are sleeping with her, of course, in the nest. But I use ‘sleeping’ loosely. They’re up at all hours, all three of them, whining for milk and attention. It seems like they can never coordinate, either, so we’re basically up all the time. My wife has taken to sleeping in bed instead of the nest to get some semblance of sleep. I’m concerned that maybe bonding between mom and pups will be jeopardized. Plus, my wife is becoming anxious from her nest no longer feeling safe and comforting. Help??_

He frowns, tapping his fingers absentmindedly. This is a problem for later, he thinks—or, at least, _hopes_. He bookmarks the page.

He doesn’t log off, even if he knows he should. He’s frustrated despite himself.

> About 72,600 results (0.36 seconds) for ‘uncooperative omega’

Something about the term alone makes Ben feel guilty, but he presses on and clicks the top link, which looks related.

> _**swordfesiter20592:** Okay so this chick I’ve been seeing: omega. EXCEPT. She had her heat last week and didn’t spend it with me. I kept insisting, but she said she wasn’t there with me yet. She saw it out alone. Said she always does. I don’t get it though. Isn’t that, like, super painful? Also like it’s a biological imperative to be together so I don’t get it. How do I alpha up?_
> 
> _**alphacock69:** I wouldn’t even spent time on that plate, bro. Dump her. And check your social market value. Hit the gym and stop settling._
> 
> _**betasrcucks2k18:** lmao youre being played so hard. saw her heat out with someone else??? ya right lol. she just doesnt know whats good for her. and youre an idiot. so maybe shes right._
> 
> _**redpillawakened:** females are replaceable dude. even omega females. dont forget it_

Ben just stares for a long moment. This wasn’t what he was looking for—not at all. A little twinge of guilt settles in his stomach; what if he is like these guys? It’s the kind of thing, he supposes, that’s hard to identify in yourself. He’s never thought of himself as abusive, but reading the forum comments make him stop cold in his tracks. He wonders, vaguely, if he’s ever been _that guy_. He wonders if she’s deeply uncomfortable; if he’s given her reason to be afraid, if taking her in was even the right choice at all.

This is the kind of morality shit that he tries to avoid thinking about.

Still, he knows there’s a reason there aren’t relevant search results: it’s not about him. This isn’t his story. Her behavior, it’s about her own issues and experiences. She’s just reacting to an environment—to a set of people—that she’s been taught to fear. He knows that—but just as clearly as he sees it, he feels the lingering hint of frustration. There must be another answer; there must be something more he can do in a situation like this. Something that would meet both their needs.

He thinks for a while, quietly, until the thought pops into his head.

> About 25,500,000 results (0.29 seconds) for ‘helping an omega with anxiety’

These results, at least, appear much less sexist than the last set. At least that’s something, he thinks.

Ben scrolls through the first page of the results.

Pseudoscience blog, check. Home remedies for which he doesn’t have the time to test, check. A lovely ‘Pinterest’ site with captions longer than he can focus long enough to read, check.

Finally, he finds it: a link to an actual study, accompanied by a comments section that looks unreasonably sensible.

_Evaluation of the efficacy of an appeasing pheromone diffuser product vs placebo for management of omega anxiety in alpha cohabitated spaces: a pilot study_

Ben clicks. He finds that the full article is behind a paywall—not that he necessarily would’ve read a full journal article anyway—but the abstract is available for free and, helpfully, mostly in terms accessible to laypeople.

The study found that omega with excessive anxiety disorders commonly present with several outward issues, including issues with nesting, uncommonly aggressive reactions to alpha pheromones, and more. He swallows, hard; his throat bobs. One study group of omegas sounds _exactly_ like her. He scans further, eager to find a solution.

> _The authors find that the application of a transdermal or topical gel, or a pheromone diffuser, may help to reduce outwardly-expressed omega anxiety in alpha cohabitated spaces. Omegas within the application group self-reported higher degrees of self-satisfaction and referenced feelings of comfort and confidence at rates statistically more significant than omegas within the placebo group._
> 
> _**AlphaWOAnxiety:** Okay, so I admit this was hard for me to understand. My omega got out of an abusive relationship that really scarred her, and she really struggled with a lot of aggression issues. Like, ass-backwards stuff. Retreated from me when I tried to hug her (isn’t that supposed to comfort them?), didn’t like cuddles, that sort of stuff. Anyway, THERE ARE OPTIONS. Don’t despair just yet. You can get a diffuser (any brand is fine) from like any supermarket. Just pop those babies in the wall (I did like one in every room) and you’ll see a big difference. Or, well, I hope you will. We did, at least. It doesn’t even smell bad: just sorta vaguely like any omega does, if that makes sense. Like, kinda sweet and stuff. Don’t worry, if you’re an alpha you’ll be into it. And mostly importantly, it makes your girl feel safer.  
>    
>  Also, my omega really likes chamomile tea. That’s kinda random to mention here, I guess, but maybe that also helped in my case. Hard to tell. I just tried to make everything she liked available in abundance. I don’t know, it worked, so. Pick her up some chamomile tea and a couple extra blankets. And just be patient. Cheers._

Ben is pushing himself up from the office chair before he can even process what he’s doing. He scrounges around his desk drawer, then the kitchen drawer with all the random shit in it, until he finds a notepad and a pen. All he finds is a stack of pink sticky notes stolen from work—and an exceptionally dull pencil—but it’ll do.

_Diffusers (1 x room)_

_Chamomile tea_

_More soft things_

_Ask her what she likes_

_?????_

 

* * *

 

He stands, quietly, in the frame of the bedroom door. She’s there, in front of him, in the center of his bed, asleep. The bowls of food are gone: every berry and slice of pineapple, every bit of scrambled egg. Her chest rises and falls with uniformity. Every now and again, her fingers twitch.

He thinks about it when he lays down on his couch, sans pillow and blanket. He finds that it’s enough, for now, to imagine her open and trusting enough to allow him to curl around her in the warmth of their nest.

He wonders if she’s having any good dreams. He hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be smut in the next one. These chapters keep ending up longer than expected.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward and two steps...

Ben awakes to a cloud thick with confusion. He rubs his forehead, which pounds in time with his heartbeat. Either temple aches with the sensation of ice picks driven into either one. There’s an itch, too, on the side of his neck. He scratches at it, to no relief, broad palm moving to cover his gland. It aches, of course—and pulses.

He sits up, slowly, hoping to clear his sinuses—to clear his head, even. He’s never woken up to a sensation this terrible. The back of his throat catches with mucus. His tongue, which somehow feels swollen and out of place in his mouth, dips experimentally into the arch of his palate.

It’s back: her heat pain. He can taste her there—the unmistakable scent of jasmine mixed with something headier that he scented before, back when he first found her. There’s something desperate about her need, separated though they are by the rooms of his apartment. Hell, there’s something desperate about _his_ need.

Ben knows he needs to open a window, drink a glass of water. He doesn’t. Instead, he pushes himself up, muscles aching with protest, and moves, slowly, one step after another, to his bedroom door.

It opens with a slight creak.

The omega is still there, of course, curled up in her nest. She’s awake this time, little hands grappling with her belly as though trying to rip the cramps out, a carbon copy of how he found her in the alley. His heart pounds, then stutters. Something about the image nearly breaks his heart.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Something about it feels ominous, though he couldn’t say exactly why. He can’t shake the slight irritation, buried away in the very back of his mind, that he’s out of place in his own body—that his will, once clear and in control, salient, is now super seceded by a more primal one.

The internal latch of the door clicks into place. The vibrating spring of the hinge goes silent. A floorboard creaks under his weight.

“Omega?”

There’s a whine, needy and desperate, and for the first time it feels like a real answer. He swallows; his throat bobs in the way that it does when he swallows a thought.

He approaches the bed, ignoring the way each step feels impossibly heavy. He stops when his shins hit the side.

She stretches out, only a few inches, unfurling in a way that suggests that he’s welcome— _finally_ welcome in his own bed.

There’s a question in her eyes; it glitters, laden with possible apology.

“Are you ready to behave now?”

It comes out gruff, deep, maybe slightly accusatory. The omega blanches, but just a little. There’s a pause; another cramp doubles her over. She nods, quickly, tiny tears prickling at the edges of her eyes.

“Good.”

He says it with more confidence—more cool self-assurance—than he really feels.

The need for relief feels urgent, but his actions refuse to follow. He palms at the bulge in his pants, slowly, somehow resistant to the panicked need that shoots up his spine. He takes his time, watching her, letting her watch him. He grows in his palm until he strains uncomfortably against the denim of his jeans.

Ben thumbs lazily at the buckle of his belt.

“Is this what you want?”

She pauses again. Her eyes dilate, only slightly, and she blinks. The dynamic that electrifies the air makes him feel almost delirious with power. It’s a little cruel, he thinks, but he can’t help it. Something about the way she’s denied him, scared though she may be, has been shredding. He doesn’t mind watching her wait a little, doesn’t mind a little bit of begging.

There’s more nodding, more frantic, and he’s satisfied.

“Okay then.”

He says it slowly, cautious with his belief. There’s a warning within it somewhere.

 _Mean what you say._ _Be good for me. Behave._

He sets one knee down on the bed, just as before, and this time she makes no move to stop him. He plants the other, tugging his belt through all its loops in one swipe. Something in him wants to throw it down—really assert himself—but it feels like too much. He lets it fall to the floor by its own weight.

She’s writhing now, little fists furling and unfurling in pain, and sympathy strikes him again. She’s a perfect vision of an omega, just what he wants, sweet and needy and nesting.

“You’re being so good,” he murmurs, bending over her to nuzzle at her neck. The scent of her overtakes him at once; she needs him—really needs him—and the pheromones burn in his nose.

The omega, for her part, whimpers again. It’s less pained than pleased this time, and he puffs out with minor pride. One hand moves to stroke in her hair; he swings a leg over so that he looms over her body.

 “So good for me.” He plants a kiss on her gland, gentle but firm, and she settles. The hands that scratched at her belly still; the knees that draw to her chest relax. She seems nearly ready to let him take care of her.

Ben loops his thumbs into the sides of his jeans and tugs them down to his thighs. His boxers follow. Both layers are shirked off a moment later and cast aside, off the edge of the bed where he doesn’t have to think about them anymore.

He grasps at the very top of the light fleece blanket which covers most of her body. He peels it down, slowly, pleasure bubbling in his chest when she doesn’t resist. She sniffles a little, swallowing past hurt, and glances up at him.

She’s beautiful, he thinks, smooth skin prickling with tiny beads of sweat. Her brow is wet with distress. He wants to wipe it, wants to assure her that it’s all okay now, but he doesn’t.

She already knows.

He casts his shirt aside in the next breath, leaning in to feel the press of her skin against his. He nestles his face in the crook of her neck for a long moment, content to breathe her in, feel her closeness. The ragged, panicked breaths from beneath him fade smoothly into even, steady ones. Some of the colour returns to her cheeks—and to other parts of her.

Pink nipples stand on end, small as the mounds that surround them.

They aren’t swollen—yet—but he knows they will be when she’s thick with his pups.

He wants to run his hands down her front, feel every inch of her softness, but there’s no time for that now. He knows that, if he’s being honest with himself. There will be time for that—all of it—later.

“Roll on your belly, omega.”

It’s not a command—not deep and guttural and compelling—but there’s strength behind it nonetheless: the wish of an alpha, expressed to his omega. She blinks, once, a little sleepily, and begins to turn over.

It feels better this way, he thinks, that she wants to obey on her own.

This time he gives in to the urge to feel her, palming over the smoothness of her sides. He rubs over the heat of her lower back, smoothing aching muscles tensed from the cramping. He can still feel the tremors wracking her body, but they’re lesser now that he’s here.

Her hair tangles at the back of her neck, a little curled from having air-dried after the shower. He collects the hair at the nape of her neck, parting it gently over onto one shoulder. Then he leans in again, slowly, until his chest presses against her back.

He licks a single stripe over her gland.

She shivers.

“There you go.” He approves, now. This is how it should be: omega beneath him, submissive, contented. She breathes in a shallow breath and exhales, calm. Her eyelids flutter, heavy. This is his job to do.

He reaches between them to part her thighs. Slick coats them already, hot and wet, and his cock throbs at the contact. She moves easily for him, relaxed and at ease, and he purrs for her.

_So good. So good. Good omega._

She rests easy in her nest, one cheek pressed against the downy fluff of the blanket beneath her. A little smile forms over her lips when the vibrations rumble through his chest. It’s subtle, barely there, but it’s enough for him.

Ben moves to suckle at her gland again, earning a small moan from her. He moves both knees between hers, now, one forearm snaking beneath her hips. He tugs the omega against him, back flush to his chest, globes of her ass pressing against his groin, until he slides between her folds.

There’s a little moment of panic—a vestige of something else, maybe, of past fear or of some inner self-preservation instinct.

“It’s okay,” he mouths against her neck, “You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She believes it—or, at least, he thinks she does, given how she relaxes again in his grip—and he finds himself purring for her again.

He presses between her folds again, slicking himself, and she lets out a little whimper.

“I know,” he murmurs, positioning himself at her entrance, “I know.”

He presses in.

There’s tangled noise from both—a deep groan of pleasure from him, a bit of a yelp for her. He stills his hips, settling only a few inches inside her, so she can adjust.

The omega under him hiccups, once, and he finds himself smiling. It’s very cute, really, watching her learn to trust in him—when it isn’t so damn frustrating, that is.

“Are you okay?”

She breathes in and out, in and out, before nodding.

“Good girl.”

He moves again, palms settling on either side of her, pressing himself deeper inside of her. She doesn’t move to escape up the bed this time; there’s no flight instinct at all anymore—not that he can see, anyways. She almost seems to rock back on him, smaller hips pressing against hips.

“There you go,” he breathes, stopping short of burying himself within her. He pulls back, letting the inches slip out of her, enjoying the grip and tightness of her body. “You feel so good.”

He thinks he sees the hint of a smile again—just a ghost of it, on her lips, but there all the same. He smiles, too, the edges of his eyes crinkling. Then he moves, thrusting lightly, sealing his mouth over the tender spot on her neck.

She whines again, but this time it’s something else. This time, it’s a whine of need.

“Such a good little omega,” he assures her when prompted, planting another kiss on her neck. She tightens around him; he can’t help but groan and thrust forward. They continue like this, rocking into each other, until he feels the swell of his knot begin to grow.

The omega tenses beneath him. Ben steadies himself to comfort her.

He sucks harder on her neck, laving the skin there with his tongue. She squirms, only a little, and he doesn’t even think she squirms _away_ from the knot—just on it, in general, maybe just on principle.

“You’re doing so well,” he pants, voice thick with approval, into her ear. She relaxes again, soothed, and her eyes flutter shut after a long moment.

The knot fills up with blood. Then he shudders, muscles clenching down, and presses as close to her as he can manage.

_Complete._

 

* * *

 

 

Ben awakes against the scratchy fuzz of his couch. He left her to nest on her own after the heat sex; it’s what she wanted, he thinks. He’s satisfied with the progress he’s made, even if it means he doesn’t yet get to pass out with her.

He stands, slowly, and goes to fix a meal for them both. He left more snacks and a few bottled waters with her—she was, no doubt, parched from a loss of fluids. Still, he expected she would probably be hungry again soon. Heats were serious business.

He sniffs the air in the kitchen when he reaches the refrigerator. Something about it is off, somehow. It’s the appliance closest to his bedroom, save for a single counter, and something about the scent of the room is _empty_.

There’s a sinking feeling in his gut before he even manages to throw the bedroom door aside.

The nest is there, in front of him, blankets thrown aside from the center and crumpled, nothing within them to hold their shape.

The nest—it’s _empty_.

He knows, even before searching the rest of the apartment—which he does anyway, of course, frantic—that she’s gone.

He knows it even before he sees the single sticky note affixed to the bedside table. His wallet lays open, next to it, cash fold emptied.

It’s there, too, in shaky handwriting: _I’m sorry_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least two people saw this coming, oops. Maybe my writing is too transparent. My bad.
> 
> Authors Note (1/5/2019): There's many ways to interpret this fic, and I love that folks are coming up with their own theories. It's a pretty wild (and gratifying!) thing to watch as an author, and I couldn't be more excited. However, I did want to clarify (so that I don't disappoint anyone) that isn't intended as a dark fic in the way that phrase is often used. That is, you can trust that Ben isn't going to insidiously up and kidnap anyone, etc etc. The mega-condensed idea here is that both characters are kind of fundamentally flawed in certain ways, and the plot is meant to follow along and examine that relationship (albeit somewhat one-sided, since it's written from Ben's perspective). So, anyway, it's just about messy people. The plot isn't going to turn into one of the really bad Law and Order: SVUs, nor am I planning an unhappy ending, so anybody worried about either of those can rest a little easier. There are, however, some ~dark~ themes, so I'm comfortable with anyone calling this fic any genre they want. After all, Real Is What You Feel(TM).
> 
> I just wanted to clarify that, whether you were hoping for it or hoping to avoid it, this fic isn't meant to go down the serial killer or obvious non-con route. There are, however, some related themes, like the inherent dubcon in the typical A/B/O world, etc. But I wouldn't say there are many added layers of deliberate "dark" meant beyond that.
> 
> There were a few comments from multiple folks (again, thank you so much!) essentially asking if this was or was going to be a dark fic--some for it and some against it--so I thought it would be prudent to clarify the intention here.
> 
> Anyway, like I said, I hope this doesn't disappoint anyone.
> 
> ANYWAYX2 I STAN FOR THE MEGA LONG COMMENTS. THEY ARE A JOY AND PRIVILEGE TO READ.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Pining. Feels.

Ben presses the receiver close. It feels cold on his flushed skin.

“Hello—yes—I want to file a police report.”

The woman on the other end of the line says she’ll transfer him.

He stares ahead, fuming but numb, trying to do his best to regulate his breathing. His breaths come out short and rapid—he’s angry, he really is—but there’s something else, too, underneath it all. Something that catches in his throat and makes his heart pound even harder.

“Hello, this is the 94th precinct. How can I help you?”

The sudden voice makes him snap back to reality. He jolts, spine straightening up so it presses against the back of the couch.

“Hey—yeah, I want to file a police report.”

“Okay, sir. Can you describe the incident before we start? You’ll need to come down here to file, of course.”

He suspected that. Ben has never actually filed a police report before.

“Uh, yeah, sure. So, uh, someone stole from my wallet.”

The words come out slowly; he’s not quite sure what to say.

There are soft scratches on the other end of the line, pencil on paper.

“Alrighty then. And what is your designation, sir?”

“Alpha.”

“Right. Can you describe the other alpha to me?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He pauses.

“I’m sorry?”

“The other alpha. Can you describe him, sir?”

Ben scratches the back of his neck. The tips of his ears glow red.

“Erm, wasn’t an alpha.”

There’s silence on the other end, only for a moment. Then the police officer speaks again.

“Right, then. Beta?”

He sighs, audibly, into his cell phone. “No, sir. Omega.”

Another pause—characteristic of this conversation, apparently—passes. There’s more rustling on the other end of the line, then muffled voices in the background. He hears ‘alpha male’ and ‘omega’ and ‘says it stole from him’. He thinks he hears a chuckle or two.

The other man comes back on the line.

“Sir, we really don’t have time for prank calls.”

“It’s not—” Ben fights the rise in his voice. He pitches it lower, a response to the natural instinct to assert himself. “It’s not a prank call.”

“Were you unable to defend yourself, then, sir?”

“Well,” he gestures, frustrated, “I mean, I was asleep when she grabbed the cash, so—”

“ _She_?”

Ben closes his eyes.

“It was a female omega, yes.”

There are definite snorts now—little sounds of derision from the other end. Ben lowers the phone and stares at it in disgust before pressing it to the side of his face again.

“Sir—” there’s another little chuff, “—no offense, sir—but do you really want to press this matter?”

“It’s a crime,” he says, slowly, enunciating each word, bewildered.

“It is, sure. Sure. But, frankly—just man to man—” the phrase makes him growl deep within his chest, masculinity threatened, “do you not have anything better to do with your time? I mean, do you _really_ want it recorded that you let some female omega steal from you?”

That’s it—that’s _really_ it.

He springs to his feet as if the officer he’s speaking with is in the room, asking for a fight. “Hey—fuck you—”

A thick New York accent hits back. “Fuck you too, buddy.”

The line goes dead.

Ben stares at the cell phone for a long moment. He stares, and stares, and stares, and then—in an instant—finds himself throwing it across his living room as hard as he can manage.

It slams against the far wall—the one near the door to his apartment—and falls, screen smashed, to the floor.

His fists clench and unclench, turning from white to red each time. His chest rises and falls. He’s furious—so furious he can’t even think straight.

Ben begins pacing, large hands on either side of his head. He presses his eyes closed, briefly, and wills himself to calm down.

He blanches when he approaches the door. He’s put a dent in the wall. He traces it, lightly, with the tips of his fingers, frayed wallpaper threatening a paper cut. Shards of silicate litter the floor, catching and glittering with light from the windows.

He fetches a broom pan, kneels, and begins sweeping the mess up. The phone is toast—that much he knows. If it dented the wall, there’s no way the integrity of the board inside hasn’t been compromised. He isn’t angry, though—not about that. It’s his own fault, after all. He threw a tantrum; these are the consequences.

Slowly, he cleans up the mess. His breathing becomes slower in time; the hormones that regulate the territorial, assertive feelings grow less concentrated in his bloodstream. Slowly, his head clears.

He sweeps the mess into a black garbage black and swings open the door to the apartment, mind blank. He takes each step slowly, heavily, making it down the stairwell in triple his usual time. He brushes past a group huddled outside one of the apartments, muscles his way down the hallway.

Light blinds him when he steps outside. It’s bright out, sunny, warm on his skin. It’s good weather for Brooklyn—the kind everybody wishes for. He should be grateful for it, really; he should go on a run this afternoon. That’s what he would’ve done if _this_ hadn’t happened.

If _she_ hadn’t happened.

He crosses the narrow street, turns the corner down the block, and stares down the dumpster where he first found her.

He lingers there for a long moment, just looking. His eyes seem glued to the spot where he found her. The pile of cardboard is gone, now, no doubt picked up sometime in the early morning.

He lifts the heavy top of the dumpster, grunts with effort, and tosses the bag of trash in.

Then he lets the lid fall with a deep thrum and a rush of air. Then he turns, decisively, and begins walking home.

The sun beams happily overhead. It’s like the whole world is making fun of him.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben slouches over the counter of the bodega down the street.

“Pack of 72s, please.” He rustles for change in his pocket—he finds only lint—before giving up and handing over a credit card.

It’s been a long time since he smoked. He started when he was seventeen. It was to do better, at first: it made him feel calmer, less anxious. His senior year grades even went up a little.

But slowly, in time, came the dependence. Suddenly cigarettes weren’t a window to happiness anymore—they were the _only_ way to happiness.

Ben’s always hated being reliant. He started dressing himself as a toddler as soon as he was able. He packed his own lunches and banned his parents from walking him to the subway stop. More than anything, he hates the feeling of needing something.

It’s why he quit, cold: because he knew he had a problem, so he dealt with it.

If only he could deal with _this_ problem.

The cashier hands over the pack. He takes a few lethargic steps out the door before settling down on the stoop.

There’s another guy smoking outside, leaning up against the wall. Ben nods. He minds his own business.

He lights up and takes a drag. It burns his throat—he coughs, once, out of practice—and makes his lungs scream with objection. He ignores it. Something about it—doing something he knows is bad for him—feels so good in this moment.

“You good, buddy?” It’s the other man who speaks. He’s moved closer, leaning on the rails lining the stoop of the bodega. “’Cause you don’t look so good.”

“Fine.” Ben’s a New Yorker. You don’t make small talk in New York. Everyone should know this, he thinks. To mind their own fucking business.

“Well I don’t think you look so good.”

The man plops down next to him. Together, collectively, they’re blocking the entrance. It doesn’t matter; no one’s inside. No one’s coming, either: not this late at night.

Ben ignores the comment. He puffs out defiantly, tries to scent the man.

He’s a beta.

His chest falls a little bit—at least the stranger isn’t a threat.

“What’s up, man?”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, I just want to kill my lungs in peace, okay?”

“Hard day, huh.”

“Yeah. Fucking hard day.”

“So why don’t you tell me about it?” the stranger puffs smoke in his face, accidentally, when he turns to talk. “You ain’t never gonna see me again.”

Ben scratches at his gland.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t seem like nothing.”

“Omega problems.”

“Oh. That is nothing.”

He throws his free hand up and moves to stand.

“I’m just kiddin, man,” the stranger says, puffing his own cigarette with a calmness Ben wishes he possessed, “c’mon. Love is love, you know. I get it. That shit’s difficult.”

A long moment passes before he decides to stay.

“I don’t even love her. I mean—I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t even know each other.”

“But you love her anyway.”

“I mean. Maybe. I don’t know. Yeah.” He breaths in another cloud of smoke. The burn at the back of his throat feels good. Maybe, if he smoked for long enough, the twitch at his gland would numb, too. “It’s fucking stupid.”

“Don’t worry about that, man. Life is short. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I guess.”

Another long moment of silence passes. It feels more comfortable now, somehow. Ben dismisses the growing thought that maybe he would benefit from therapy.

“Was she your girl?”

Ben makes a hum of consideration in the back of his throat. It only makes the scratch worse. “Mhm. Maybe. Kind of just a hook-up, I guess.” More silence. “But I though… I thought she was meant to be. With me, y’know.”

“Maybe she was.”

He shakes his head.

“Nah. Ran away. This morning. Emptied out part of my wallet, too.”

“Oh. Shitfucker. Any cards?”

“Nah. Just cash. I guess she’s smart.”

“You got any idea why she’d do that?”

Ben shrugs.

He knows, though; of course he knows. He just isn’t so sure he wants to share.

“Either this is her schtick,” he says, slowly, each word coming out like molasses, “or she really, really needed the money.”

He doesn’t want to think about the latter option, he really doesn’t, because he knows that it means that maybe—maybe—he made a mistake. Maybe there was more he could’ve done, something more that would’ve made her comfortable. Maybe he should have forced a conversation, forced her to tell him her problems. Maybe he could’ve helped.

Maybe he was just an asshole.

“I’m not even mad at her,” he says, faintly, entirely ashamed of himself. He almost hopes the man doesn’t hear him. He knows it’s pathetic.

“You know where to find her again?” Ben shakes his head. He doesn’t. “Man, I’m sorry. That’s gotta be rough. I mean, I ain’t know—us betas ain’t have that shit—but I imagine it’s gotta be hard, losing your mate or whatever.”

She’s not his mate, of course, but Ben doesn’t correct him. It doesn’t matter.

He inhales again, longer this time, head growing slowly lighter with the prickling sensation of floating. Whatever problems he had, they’re numbed now. Maybe, if he smokes the whole pack, he won’t even remember her. Maybe he’ll be able to muffle the scent of her in his apartment with the thickness of smoke.

Maybe, he thinks—

And then stops thinking—

Because he sees her.

He sees _her_.

He’s on his feet and running down the block before he can even help it—before he can even say goodbye to the good Samaritan. It’s just instinct, really: the embodiment of fight-or-flight. It’s flight time now: he needs to get to her, needs her back more than anything else.

He catches up to the lithe girl, hand grabbing out roughly at an off-white skirt.

“Omega—”

“ _What the fuck?_ ”

The girl turns.

Green eyes meet his.

There’re no freckles on her face—none. Her nose is all wrong, chin different.

Everything’s different.

It’s not her.

“Sorry—”

“Hey, fuck you! Get your filthy hands off me.”

He drops the fabric—of course he does—and just stares as the woman hurries down the block, shooting him a look of derision all the way.

He’s alone.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> South Jamaica is a neighborhood in Queens, NYC.

Ben pitter-patters across the kitchen, bare feet on linoleum. He’s deposited his shoes and socks in one of the low drawers and hopes his mother will never find them.

“Ben, honestly!” Leia straightens up from where she’s been hunched over the next batch of brownies. She dusts her hands of flower with a small, white towel, before wringing it half-menacingly. “You get back here!”

The little boy giggles and zig-zags across tiles instead.

“Ben,” she hisses through gritted teeth, “we don’t run in—”

“Senator!”

A resident approaches, wrapping her arms around his mother before she has a chance to object. She shoots him a knowing look, but Ben knows he’s safe for now: the lady is one of the chattiest in the nursing home. His mother will be distracted for ages.

They come here, to Peaceful Meadows in South Jamaica, every Saturday. Han used to gripe about having to get up so early, but he’s hardly in the picture now. Besides, Leia always used to win that fight. His mother insists volunteering is important.

“We’re very privileged, Benjamin,” she said once.

Ben twiddled his thumbs. “Mommy, what does the big word mean?”

“It means you got very lucky. Most little boys don’t have the toys you do,” she said, ruffling his hair, “So we need to help other people.”

“Okay.”

It was all the convincing he needed, really: kids are pliable.

He sits, now, in the corner, playing with one of his trucks.

“Hello there.” It’s one of the older ladies, plopped down on the seat of her walker. “You look like you’re having fun. I thought I’d come hang out over here with the fun kids.”

She winks at him and Ben giggles again.

“Are you going to be a firetruck driver when you’re a big boy?”

He shakes his head. “I’m gonna be a pilot like daddy!”

“Oh, I see, I see. That’s very exciting, now isn’t it?”

“I’m gonna be a Blue Angel!”

Never mind that he says it as _boo angle_ —the woman just smiles indulgently.

“Why of course you are!”

Ben plays with his truck a while longer, pushing its tiny rubber wheels across the floor with great friction, leaving tiny little wheel impressions if you really squint.

He looks up after a while, astutely, and focuses hard on the woman’s face. “Are you going to heaven soon?”

Leia hears him and, of course, rushes over to collect her son.

“ _So_ sorry—” she says, wrapping Ben in her arms. She grabs his truck when he whines. “He’s only five.”

Ben proudly splays the grubby fingers of one small hand to illustrate.

The woman, for her part, belly laughs.

“Benny— _Benjamin_ —that’s a very rude thing to ask,” his mother says as soon as they’re out of earshot. She’s walked him back over to her part of the kitchen, where the next batch of brownies is now in the oven.

“Why?”

“Ben, I’ll answer you at home—”

“But _why_?”

“ _Ben_ —” she closes her eyes and collects herself. “Why don’t you help me arrange the care packages for the residents, love?”

Sometimes the only thing you can do is redirect a toddler.

He seems to forget about his line of questioning a moment later.

“Here—can you put the brownies momma’s wrapped in the bottom of these baskets?” Leia sets him down on a wiped-off portion of the counter that she doesn’t need clean. He folds his legs and sets to work, concentrating hard to be careful with the baked goods. Mommy says sometimes his grabby-hands aren’t very gentle.

They work like this for a while—mother mixing up the last of the batch and setting the ingredients away, son arranging the finished products into sloppily-constructed care packages. Before long, all the wrapped goods disappear, each arranged into a basket to hand off to a resident.

“Momma,” he mutters, burying his face in her neck when she finally lifts him up. He’s tired now.

“Yes?”

“My neck doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Leia pulls back to look at her son for a long moment. Then smiles gently.

“Some people are like that, Ben: they need to take care of others. Maybe you’ll be that kind of person when you become a grown-up.”

He nuzzles into her neck again, letting tiny eyelids drift shut. “Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ben stares at the aisle’s shelves. He never knew there were so many kinds of chamomile fucking tea.

He scratches at his gland absentmindedly.

She’s not coming back. He knows she’s not coming back.

It itches anyway.

“Hey, do you need help?”

Ben startles, finds himself confronted by a smiling face. A beautiful, smiling face. Radiant, really. She has such white teeth, so kind-looking—

“Um,” he sweeps his hand through his hair. “Do you work here?”

Dark brown waves frame her face. She looks a little like _her_ —if he pretends hard enough.

There isn’t a scent to latch on to. _Beta_.

She grins again. “No. You just look like a man who’s very lost in the tea aisle.”

He blushes, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. “Yeah, yeah… I am that.” He rocks back on his heels.

“Looking for something in particular?” She seems to sidle a little closer. His heart rate picks up.

“Not… sure. Something calming?”

“Look like you could use it.”

It’s said with a wink and a playful lilt, but the tips of his ears grow red anyways. She leans up on her tip-toes and retrieves a small, brightly coloured box from the top rack.

“Have you tried this one before?”

He shakes his head.

“Sometimes I make it before baths. Very relaxing.”

Baths. She takes baths. She makes this before she takes her baths—

He shakes his head as though it’ll cast out the thoughts.

“Not what you’re looking for?”

“Er—no—sorry—it’s perfect.”

He reaches for the box, clumsily, and deposits it into the plastic grocery store carrier draped over one of his arms.

There’s a semi-awkward silence, then, punctuated by a knowing smile.

“Need help with anything else?”

He swallows, thickly, itching the side of his neck again. There’s chemistry, that much he knows. Powerful chemistry. Is she really coming on to him?

He would have invited her back to his apartment only a week ago with no hesitation at all. But now—now there’s something more to it—

“I’m actually kind of getting over someone right now.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.” A smile forms. “Really, it’s fine.” There’s another, longer silence. “Sorry,” he bleats, resisting the urge to cover his face with one large palm. “I’m not very good at… this.”

“I understand. Hey,” she produces an old receipt from somewhere within her purse, scratching some numbers onto it. “Feel free to call if you get over her, alright?”

He takes the paper and only looks on as she disappears, unburdened by the weight he feels, down the aisle and around the corner.

 _Alright_.

 

* * *

 

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

That doesn’t stop him from doing it.

Sharp edges of the wicker braids lick at his fingertips as he sets the basket down on his countertop.

Ben unloads the bags—reusable, of course, because he lives in Brooklyn and that’s what people in Brooklyn do—and sets cans of food out in a neat row.

There are soups: chunky chicken noodle, homestyle minestrone, beef and barley. They’re the kind with the pull-tops, no can-opener required. There are packaged ones, too—the kind that only require the addition of hot water. There are candy bars, only a few of them, and little bottles of vitamins, all over-the-counter stuff.

_NatureMaid™ adult gummies: Hair-Skin-Nails_

_NatureMaid™ Multi: For Her_

_One-A-Day Women’s Prenatal with DHA_

He starts arranging them into the basket: larger items on the bottom, smaller things on top. He piles in a generous number of Clif Bars, stuffing them along the sides. He imagines it doesn’t matter too much if they get a little smushed.

Ben takes a step back after a while, finally gives in to the heavy sigh that’s welled up in his body.

_Stupid. Definitely stupid._

He shoves the thought out of mind, walking over to his desk. There, he sits down and pulls out the lowest drawer. Old items—stock papers and X-ACTO knives and dip pens—are retrieved from their box, jumbled together, dry ink staining the sides.

He cuts a small square out of the cardstock and scallops the edges. It’s not masculine, but he hopes his message might seem less threatening that way.

Ben writes in long, flowy scratches of pen on paper, less formal and less precise than he used to. That’s okay, he thinks: he’s a different person, now, after all.

The note is set aside for later.

He busies himself, then, in Microsoft Publisher. He chooses a simple template—he doesn’t need a fancy one, nor does he want it to look overly manufactured—and types a short series of words onto the paper.

_Omega:_

_You’re always welcome home._

_117 Basquiat Ln, Greenpoint_

_11211-3467_

_Call for apt number._

There’s a series of vertical lines at the bottom, the same small text wedged between each.

_B     B    B     B     B_

_E     E     E     E     E_

_N    N     N    N    N_

Another line runs up the page in parallel, just beneath the words.

_555-835-9657_

He knows it’s unwise to make his real cell phone number available to perfect strangers on the streets of New York. So, instead, he set up a Google Voice number—one that links directly to his real one. He’ll still get inundated with calls and texts—he’s sure he will. He expects nothing less of the local vagrants and vagabonds.

Still, it’ll all be worth it if she— _she_ —calls.

That’s all he needs to justify it: just a single call from a single girl.

He swallows, suffocating the sensation that this, too, is stupid, and prints a few hundred copies.

They’ll be plastered all around the streets of Greenpoint in a few hours: on every light post, every public corkboard in every coffee shop that will let him in.

For now, though, it’s time to set out the basket.

He picks up the note, carries it gingerly in one hand, and picks up the arrangement in the other. There’s a roll of tape stuffed in the back pocket of his dark jeans.

Ben makes his way down the walk-up of his building, moving with stuffy New York indifference to avoid his neighbors’ questions.

He walks outside, nipped by the first chill of Autumn air, and sets it down a few feet right of the callbox door.

He doesn’t expect her to find it. She may never come back here, looking for him. To wish that she would—well, he knows it’s unreasonable. It’s a fantasy, really, but he holds onto it, however futile.

In all likelihood, the snacks will be pilfered by random street folks by the end of the night. He doesn’t even blame them: he’d do the same.

Still, he sets the basket down and tapes the note to the very top.

He stares, alone, for a long moment. Lips draw themselves into a thin line; arms cross.

Then he turns, resigned, and walks back inside.

He’s done what he can.

The offering remains outside, on its own, through the hours, through the light afternoon rain, through sundown.

The note remains, too, scrawling script still etched into the card.

_These are for you—whether or not you choose to come back._

_Buzz me if you want to._

_I’ll let you in, anytime, day or night._

_I’m sorry._

_Good luck._

_I mean that sincerely._

_In perpetuity,_

_Ben._

 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the time jump.

He groans and turns over in bed.

It’s cold out, storming. Little droplets coalesce on his window streak across it, battered by the wind.

There’s the hard pitter-patter of rain against his window, sprinkled with a chorus of honking cars from the intersection beneath his window. New Yorkers aren’t known for patience—especially not in the rain, which, somehow, no one seems able to drive in. Worse, the temperatures keep dropping: anything lower, and the precipitation is liable to turn to sleet.

Ben rubs at his eyes and takes a deep breath. He won’t be going back to sleep.

He stands, leaving the warmth of bed; he quickly finds that light blue plaid boxers are not enough to keep him warm. He stares at the thermostat for a long moment. Crank it up, pay more. Leave it be, freeze.

 _Great_.

He doesn’t think about his checkbook often. He makes enough to get by as a network administrator at a Conde Nast branch downtown—enough to not have to worry about things. It’s less than the software engineers, and less than he could make if he really pushed himself, but it’s alright. It’s enough.

It wouldn’t be enough, though, if—

If—

The calendar sits there, on the small desk near the entrance to his room. It’s propped open, today’s date circled.

 _November 19_.

A lump forms in his throat; he swallows it down with prejudice.

She would be five months pregnant today.

That is, if she kept the pups—and there almost assuredly _were_ pups, given that he’s pretty sure she wasn’t on birth control, and that he was reckless. And, of course, if she’s still alive.

He glances outside. Frigid wind rustles the trees that line the sidewalk.

Color drains from his face.

Ben left the basket out as long as he could manage—well past the notices from his landlord to take it in, well past the months and months of fervent restocking. He knows the items that went missing everyday weren’t likely taken by her. They were, almost definitely, taken by others relegated to the streets. He doesn’t mind; it was part of what it was there for.

He went out, every day, morning and night, regardless of the weather, and replaced every item that had gone missing.

It cost a small fortune to do that, of course—especially to replace the vitamins, which he learned are almost prohibitively expensive—but he did it. Just knowing that there was a chance— _any_ chance—that she might find it—

He sighs, crossing his arms in the window. He only took the basket in when the borough threatened to sue. Something about _obstructing public walkways_ and _safety of the public_ and _unlicensed street vending_.

He’s gotten calls from his flyers, too. Tons of them. None were helpful; there were a lot of prank calls, a lot of very explicit sexual propositions—what he expected, really. He has, however, catalogued the number of each hang-up call.

There’s one series that caught his eye: a pattern of calls, clustered late at night in October when the city got its first snowfall, from a public payphone a little over two miles away.

He hangs out near that phone sometimes, just reading a book on the nearby bench. It’s paranoid, and desperate, and pathetic—and he knows it. But he _has to_.

That’s it: the beginning and end of his trail. He’s grasped at nothing but straws, each day becoming more and more aware that she’s never coming back. He thinks she’s fading, just a little bit, in his memory. The sheets—which he saved in a box in the closet, unwashed—smell a little less like her. The air in his apartment, too, smells more purely of alpha male with each passing day.

Ben doesn’t believe in soulmates; he never has. He does, though, believe in the power of brain chemistry and his, for whatever reason, was sent haywire by hers. He only hopes that it’ll work equally as well with someone else someday—that the process of falling out of love will be swift, and grow less painful, and bring someone else for him.

Soon, preferably.

Soon would be nice.

He looks out the windows, watches as a particularly rough burst of wind whacks leaves from their stems, watches them as they float to the sopping ground.

He shivers.

 

* * *

 

It’s 2:41 in the afternoon and Ben Solo is drunk—really, truly, unforgivably drunk. He had to be, really, to do this. He couldn’t muster the courage on his own.

He sits on his couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. A patch on his neck, opposite his gland, glows red and angry—it gets this way every time he gets drunk. He feels flushed, sweaty, uncomfortable. He sits this way for a long time, not daring to touch another drop of alcohol, waiting a while to come down to an acceptable level of _tipsy_.

When he does, he brushes his teeth and scrapes his tongue. The last thing he needs to do right now is reek of alcohol—or alpha, for that matter. He scrubs under his arms and re-applies deodorant, just for extra insurance. Then he sprays cologne on his neck—both sides.

His gland objects to the burning sting of _Dior Homme_ ; he ignores it.

It’s a short walk to _New Beginnings Home_ —less than five blocks. It’s on a quiet, reserved block near the docks. Real estate is cheap there, and there’s not too much to disturb the quiet converted townhome. There’s a church on the corner across from it, a public library two blocks further. It’s nice enough, he supposes, hands in his pockets, staring at the entrance stoop from across the street.

This might not even be the place, though. He really has no idea, other than the list of homes in Greenpoint—then in Brooklyn at large—that he’s compiled.

If the place is in another borough… well, there’s not much he can do about it.

Ben crosses the street, harnessing fleeting confidence before it can escape. He swings the heavy, carved door of the entrance open with just enough strength and steps inside.

What once must’ve been a more welcoming foyer has been converted into nothing less than a prison entryway. There’s another door blocking his way into the main floorplan of the home, locked several times over. A receptionist sits to his right, a sheet of thick glass separating them. A speaker juts out towards him.

“Sir, men aren’t allowed here.”

The receptionist is an older, larger woman, clothed in a flower-patterned dress straight from the windows of that store he walks by on the way to work, Torrid. She stares at him over the bridge of her glasses, unwelcoming scowl covering her features.

Ben does his best to slump his shoulders forward, to hunch a little, to do anything but look like an Alpha. He doesn’t want to look threatening—he _isn’t_ threatening.

_Right?_

“Er, no, I know—” he manages a nervous smile, cocking his head to one side, “I’m just here to leave a message—”

“We don’t take messages here, sir.”

“Look—I’m looking for a pregnant omega—”

“I’m sure you are.”

He stifles a low growl and redoubles his efforts. “Please,” he pleads, exasperated, “I hooked up with this omega five months ago. It wasn’t the right time to be together, and she left. But—but I can’t shake this feeling that she’s carrying my pups, and—”

“Sir, you need to leave immediately. You’re trespassing.”

“—I just want to offer child support. Or, to drive her to OB/GYN appointments—something. If she wants my support—”

“This is a shelter for young women, sir. We do _not_ allow men here; certainly not previous partners, and _certainly not alphas_.”

“—she can have it—”

“Sir, I’m going to have to call security.”

Ben wipes a hand over his face.

“Ma’am. _Ma’am_ , please. I’m not abusive, it was just a one-night stand and I’m not sure if she has my information. She could _want_ my information!”

“Sir, we take in lots of omegas. But even if your omega—who apparently doesn’t have a name—was here, I wouldn’t be telling you about her. We. Don’t. Take. Messages. The women here are here to seek refuge, to start new lives. Not trudge up old trauma.”

“I’m not old trauma!”

“Sir, I’m calling security right now if you don’t leave.”

“Can you just promise me—”

“No.”

“ _Please_ —”

“I’m calling security.”

“She’s like 5’6”, mousy brown hair, white but a little bit tanned.” The woman talks over him, on the phone to security. Ben talks louder. “Tell her if she’s here. Please. Just so she knows I’m here as an option if she wants it.”

Two burly men open the door separating him from the inside of _New Beginnings_. They grasp his arms—each taking hold of a bicep—and yank him through the front entrance.

“Please,” he manages to shout before getting thrown out, “Ben Solo. Tell her to look up Ben Solo.”

He hits the pavement, hard. The front door swings shut behind him, then clicks.

 _Shit_.

 

* * *

 

He lingers on the porch of _Friends of Women_ for a long moment before stepping inside. It’s almost an asshole thing to do—or maybe it just straight-up is one—and he’s less than thrilled. Scraped knees bleed into his dark jeans. It’s only the second home he’s visited; he blanches at the thought of trying all seventeen other Greenpoint homes, let alone the one-hundred-and-twenty-some in Brooklyn itself.

“Hello there,” he starts his speech, more measured and deliberate this time, the moment he steps through the door. “My name is Ben Solo and—”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t allow alphas on the premises.”

“I completely understand that, ma’am, but—”

“Not up for debate. Please leave.”

“Ma’am, I really need to get a message along to someone who could be staying here.”

“We don’t allow abusive ex-partners to use us as a messaging service, sorry.” The woman, who somehow looks very much the same as the last receptionist, begins dialing on a cell phone that’s appeared almost faster than he could notice it.

“ _Please_ —”

“Sir, leave. I’m calling the police.”

“Ma’am—don’t—ma’am—”

“ _Hello, yes, I have a belligerent alpha male here at 1114 17 th_—”

“Look,” Ben bellows over her, “I probably got somebody pregnant and I’m not about to leave her high and dry. Please—god—would you just tell her, if she’s here, that I’m happy to provide child support? Or child care, or—”

“Sir, the police have been called.”

Ben waves his hands, failing to materialize words.

“I guess they have.” He pauses for a long moment. “She’s around 5’6” or 5’7”—”

“Oh, honestly. What is it with you alpha men? Is nothing sacred to you? You’re so selfish that you would barge in here—here, _a women’s shelter_ —and demand something? How unreasonable can you be?”

Hands wave again, more exasperated this time.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. Sometimes the right thing is complicated.”

The woman only shakes her head.

He carries on with his speech, of course, about her hair colour and her eye colour and any other distinctive marks he can remember. He talks about the likely pregnancy, reiterates that he only wants to give the omega the option of having him around—the whole shebang.

The cops show up faster than he expected—Brooklyn is supposed to be underfunded, after all—and don’t take kindly to his showing up here, not that he expected anything less.

He folds his hands behind his back when asked, one gripping the other, and allows the handcuffs to clink shut. He pleads with the woman as he’s led out, same as before just with less shouting the finer details.

The cop car opens on its left side, passenger side door held ajar by one of the other officers. The one restraining him places a hand on the crown of his head and makes him duck.

The door slams shut, and then they’re on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter will be the last with no Rey. Thanks for sticking with me.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to copyedit more but I have a seminar class that goes late tonight, so fuck it. Maybe I'll do it later. 
> 
> If there are egregious errors, sorry. It is fanfic, after all.

Ben lies flat on his back. His weight sinks into the mattress, soft sides cradling either side of him. He never removed the downy omega pad, even though his lower back begs him to. It should have been out of here long ago; he should’ve cast it aside with the rest of the emotional baggage. He finds that he hasn’t done either. _Can’t_ —not while the faint scent of her is the only thing that can lull him to sleep.

Something else hurts, too. Lymph nodes on either side of his throat swell; spit collects in the back of his throat, sticky and suffocating. He suppresses the urge to groan that grows in his diaphragm and threatens to vocalize itself. He recognizes the signs: all of them are accompanied by an ever-itchier gland.

It’s really, _really_ not the time to rut; he had planned to put in some overtime to make up for the thousand-dollar fine he owed the city for loitering on shelter property. Plus, he thinks stubbornly, there're still hundreds of homes left to check. She might not be in any of them—but she _could_ be.

He’s increasingly aware, though it pains him to admit, that he’s doing what _he_ needs: it’s not even for her—it’s so he can sleep at night. He knows it’s selfish—destructive, even, if he truly is scaring social workers and innocent omegas—but he _needs_ closure.

“Closure is something you give yourself, Ben,” his court-mandated therapist told him. He has two sessions left before he completes the program and gets let off with just the fine.

Actually, he thinks, chewing on his lower lip, he has _three_ left. The first one didn’t really get counted as complete.

“Fuck you,” he’d said, having pushed himself off the deep-leather couch and stormed out the door. He’d gotten halfway down the cream-colored, sterile hallway before turning back. “You’re right,” Ben had said, finger pointed at the man. It wagged once as words he tried to summon failed to materialize. “But fuck you.”

Ben swallows, hard, lifting a single hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He needs to rut; for the past several months, he’s been taking large doses of Ruticience(tm)—the male alpha version of Plan B. The pill contains a huge dose of suppressants—it’s not intended to be taken all the time—but he hasn’t had the time, nor the energy, nor the emotional bandwidth to go through regular ruts.

It’s not hard to see the toll on his body, though; his muscles feel weaker, it’s harder to get to sleep, he’s angry all the time. Every male he encounters on the street—even omegas—somehow feel like a challenge.

He _needs_ to rut.

Ben scowls and tightens his fist.

He resists for a few minutes longer, flexing and unflexing his hands like they taught him in the high school class _Alpha: Anger Management and You_. It’s supposed to de-stress, calm, _soothe_.

He finds that it doesn’t.

There are some things that can’t be overcome. Biochemistry, he supposes, is one of them.

Ben rises with all the suppressed rage of a man slave to his own body. He flexes his jaw, muscle twitching on one side, as he walks to retrieve the items.

He hasn’t used them in a long time, and something about using them now, after her—

He hesitates. It feels dirty, somehow; _demeaning_.

Biochemistry wins this battle, too, when a particularly hot surge of blood pounds in his gland. It’s too much for him, with all its constant aching and itching and _distraction_ ; it overpowers all rational thought.

A hand wiggles under the drawstring of grey sweatpants that rest on his hips, down beneath dark cotton boxer briefs.

He swallows, one large hand propping himself up against the dresser for support. The soft skin of one large palm rubs against the sensitive skin of his head, slicking the fluid that pearled at its tip. The groan that threatened to escape finally does.

 _Yes_. This is what he needs.

Ben ditches the last threads of resistance and reaches for the box buried at the bottom of the drawer. One hand closes around it, the other surfacing from between his thighs to grab the accompanying bottle of lube.

It’s a _process_ , really, which is part of why he hasn’t done this in a while—even a bit before he met her. He boils a pot of water, the skin under one eye twitching through the long wait. His body weight slumps against the kitchen counter behind him; he finds his wrist acting almost of its own accord, finding a home within his sweatpants again.

Ben sucks in a harsh breath of air; his eyes flutter shut. He squeezes at the base of his cock, seeking relief, then works in long strokes up to the tip and back. His throat pulsates as he works his foreskin up and over the ridge of his cock, back down, up again. Quick puffs of air emerge from his chest, which contains a quick-beating heart.

 _Fuck_. He’s out of practice.

A wave of relief rushes over him when the water is done boiling, little bubbles covering the top, steam rising to fog the microwave window above. He turns the burner off, carefully, conscious that he’s not _quite_ the most body-aware nor precise right now, and places the contents of the box down on the granite counter.

A long, black flashlight-like tube rolls a few inches. Ben stops it from rolling off the counter and onto the floor. He stands it up, one circular end flush to the counter, and pours the scalding water to the dotted line within.

Then there’s a long, cream-colored tube. It’s soft to the touch— _too_ soft, almost—and folds in on itself until he stretches it out and holds it at a single end. There’s texture inside—ridges and folds and whatever else—but he tries not to think about them.

It makes his chest compress with loneliness when he focuses on the toy too much.

Plus, it’s a bitch to clean.

He carefully dips the sleeve into the tube, closed-end first, and stretches the other end over the open end of the tube so that the water is capped off. There’s another cap—a softer, plastic one, meant to resemble a vulva if you really squint—which he affixes over the tube’s end as extra insurance against the water leaking.

Ben suppresses the little hint of shame that tickles between his ribs. He squirts lube into the entrance of the toy, instead; its protein bindings will degrade in a moment from the heat, and soon the liquid will run like slick.

 _Real_ slick.

Allegedly.

Ben wonders, just for a moment, how the two will compare: the omega sleeve versus the real thing.

His chest rattles; now’s not the time to entertain the thought.

It’s not the time to entertain any thought of her, really, but he finds himself back in his bedroom before he can help himself. His eyes flick to the large cardboard box in the corner, then to his bed, then back.

Don’t, he thinks. _Don’t_.

But he does. He finds himself consumed with the lust of a full-blown rut, on his knees in front of the box before he can finish a cogent thought. He watches as his hands, seemingly disembodied, acting with a will of their own, rip off the top folds of the box. A soft, downy comforter awaits inside, intertwined and tangled with the sheet saturated with her slick.

His body shakes; little ripples of excitement run up his spine and root themselves somewhere behind his tailbone. Ben leans forward, audibly groans, and shoves his nose into the pile of bedding.

If he thought touching himself was a lot, _this_ is too much.

His vision blurs for a long moment, whited-out at the edges, little sparks of white-and-gold-flecked floaters clouding the rest of his field of view (honestly, he should probably see an optometrist about that.)

His chest puffs out as he snuffles deeper into the soft bedding, the scent of her stinging his nostrils and cutting off his airways. He’s a man possessed, writhing on the floor in the equivalent of a beta panty-sniffing episode.

It’s sick; it’s terrible; it feels _so good_.

Large, overgrown bear hands fumble with the omega sleeve. He angles himself too sharply the first time—he’s too occupied and drunk on her scent to look down—and misses the entrance entirely. He hits home the next time, though, sliding into scalding softness that feels remarkably real.

He almost wishes it didn’t.

_Almost._

In the minutes that follow, Ben tugs the entire bulk of the bedding free and wraps both arms around it. The sleeve gets conveniently nestled into the sheets somewhere, holding it in place so he that his hips can thrust deftly in place. There’s heavy breathing, panting—even a few grunts that make him sound more animal than human.

The shame is lost quickly, though; there’s no function in his human brain, not anymore—everything is left up to the hindbrain, the short stem at the very back of his head that, for now, seems to control him.

He’ll resent it, later. He’ll even break another lamp. But for now—for _now_ , it feels like the best thing he’s ever felt.

Long, steady strokes turn into quicker, more frantic thrusting. He pounds into the bedding, which shifts with his weight and becomes harder to hang onto, less human-shaped in his arms. He races against the expiration of fantasy to find release.

Soon the tickle in his balls builds to overwhelming pressure. The sensitive skin at the base of his cock swells with blood, every square centimeter of skin aching for touch and heat. Instinct drives him to plunge into the sleeve as far as he can go, and from there nature takes over. He feels himself lock into the faux-pelvic bone of the toy, feels his body draw back and crest through the waves of orgasm.

It takes what feels like a long time to come down from the brain-addled peak of coming but soon—much sooner than he would’ve liked—his mind clears enough to think.

She’s not here, of course: there’s only rumpled sheets on the ground.

The soft, warm thing he’s locked inside is a cheap plastic toy, not a human to love.

He’s alone, nose nested in dirtied sheets.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben spins around in slow circles, office chair creaking every now and again under his weight.

Most of being a network administrator is simply being available _if_ things happen—and they do, sure, but it’s not exactly an action-heavy job.  

He clicks and unclicks a pen in rapid succession (it annoys the coworker in the cube next to him) and taps his fingers on his desk when he tires of that (he imagines—hopes—that it’s just as annoying).

When he swivels around for what feels like the thousandth time, he stops in front of the glass pane of window that stretches across this side of the office floor. He peers out, mouth drawing into a thin line, as snowflakes fall to the ground.

He hadn’t noticed them before—it must’ve just started snowing—and it’s coming down with alarming speed. The entire road beneath him, ten stories down, is already coated in a thin layer of snow, even with the constant flow of Manhattan traffic. As soon as tires drive over it, crushing amalgamations of snowflakes into icy fluid on the pavement, new snowflakes coalesce to take their place.

Ben thumbs at the side of his phone, swiping left so that the Google Cards on his Android show the weather.

 

_Manhattan_

_12 degrees Fahrenheit_

_Severe inclement weather incoming_

 

Then, below it, on the first swipeable card:

 

_‘Polar vortex’ set to grip the city - New York Times, updated 12 minutes ago_

 

The lips that press thin pout, just a little, too subtly for even him to notice. His throat bobs as he thumbs the icon for Gallery, navigating to the picture he took of the slip with the grocery store woman’s number on it.

It’s there, just where he left it. Perky, round handwriting fills up the little slip that’s dwarfed by his much larger palm. He says the girl’s name over and over in his head. He swallows his feelings, exits the page, and taps on the telephone icon.

He’s going to call her. Maybe he’s finally moving on.

Ben gets through typing the first seven digits when _he_ receives a call.

A large thumb fumbles and presses **Accept** instead of **Deny** —and, too flustered by the coincidence to simply hang up, he lifts the phone to his right ear.

“What?” he barks. It’s a little aggressive, even for him, but he’s pissed off at the universe: cockblocking him even when he tries to move on with his life—

There’s a long, long stretch of silence. It’s not empty, though; there’s soft breathing at the other end, barely perceptible, the noise of it sprinkled with equally soft static.

The realization comes to him slowly—it feels like time stops entirely when his heart jolts—and it creeps up his spine in powerful, radiating waves of recognition.

“Omega?”

 


	9. Nine

Ben shivers in his chair, protected as he is from the snowfall outside. He watches snowflakes fall: seemingly clumped together, tattered at the edges. Poetry says they’re supposed to be small and delicate, each as unique as the next.

He’s not sure that he sees them that way.

In second grade, Mrs. Miller had her class fold layers out of construction paper. Any colour was allowed—red, green, purple. Most of the class cut out a half-shape at the edge which, when stretched out, revealed a long string of perfectly symmetrical, identical shapes.

Ben used white paper. But when he stretched his out, he cut differing patterns into the exposed perimeters of each snowflake. He didn’t like that they all looked alike. That wasn’t the point of snowflakes. After all, mommy had told him that they were all special in their own way; no two patterns were supposed to be alike.

When show-and-tell time came, each of his classmates stood on the show-and-tell time puzzle mat and showed off their chain of carbon-copied shapes.

When his time came, he stretched his little arms wide, revealing his chain of differing designs.

A girl in the front of the classroom laughed. She was hushed by the teacher, of course, but the smirk on the girl’s face remained. She grasped her palms together eagerly, grubby hands folded over her crossed legs.

He still remembers that the girl wore purple Scooby Doo socks, complete with white frill at the tops.

“Ben, you know every snowflake is supposed to be the same!” Mrs. Miller scolded.

The young Ben only pouted. Eager arms dropped to his side, pride no longer bubbling within him.

“But I don’t want the same shapes!”

“But it looks so nice that way—”

“ _No it doesn’t!”_

He thinks he even stomped his foot.

“Ben, snowflakes don’t really have sharp points like that. They’re pretty—they have lots of pretty details. You have to be gentle when you cut out the shape from your paper.”

“Well snowflakes don’t really come in _red_ —”

“Mrs. Miller,” the girl at the front started, voice high and shrill—or at least that’s how he remembers it— “Alphas aren’t gentle enough to make pretty snowflakes.”

Ben swallows, even now, twenty-three years later. His Adam’s apple bobs; fingers tighten around his cell phone until his fingertips turn white.

Maybe that little girl was right.

He stares out the window, quiet, his breath the only sound transmitting to the receiver.

Snowflakes fall, ragged and crystallized and shivery-wet. They clump together on the sides of the streets where car tires can’t quite melt them; it looks like a particularly heavy-handed child dumped out a canister of powdered sugar.

It’s imperfect.

You wouldn’t find the oil-slicked slush on a postcard.

Ben can hear her— _her_ —on the other end, breathing just as shallowly.

He clears his throat.

“Omega?”

There’s a little hitch in breath.

He swallows again, hard. The mucus is thicker. “I know it’s you.” Then, after a long pause—a long, _long_ pause, “It’s okay.”

There’s another hitch in the breath coming from the other end of the line. He can just make out a series of faint, suppressed puffs. It’s the kind of noise someone makes when hyperventilating—or the kind someone makes when fighting back tears.

“It’s okay.” He pauses again, pauses shorter now. “Can you tell me where you are?”

A soft peep comes from the phone. It’s followed by a soft hum, barely perceptible—and then silence.

She’s still there—the line hasn’t gone dead—but it’s clear she’s still reticent.

Ben stands, snapping out of the more wistful state, and gathers his keys. He leans over his desk, bent at the waist, and thumbs the combination of keys that locks his desktop.

_Fuck work._

“Please,” he mutters into the line, keeping his voice low to avoid alerting his coworkers that anything is up (as if they weren’t already aware—he’s taking long strides double his usual length across the office floor). “You can tell me where you are.”

He jams the elevator ‘down’ button. Then he jams it five more times.

He curses under his breath.

Ben doesn’t have a plan, not really, but he’ll _come up with one, dammit_. Even if it means taking his phone to the police to NCIS-track her location, he’ll do it. He’ll figure it out. _And soon_ , he hopes.

The elevator comes soon enough—empty, thank god—and he presses through the doors before they’re fully open, pressing his back against one side. He jams another button, this time the one to close the doors.

“Please,” he murmurs, more desperate now, silently praying that the elevator shaft doesn’t make the connection cut out. “Please tell me where you are? You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

There’s more silence—well, _almost_ silence: little puffs and whimpers punctuate the static.

The elevator chimes at each floor. Ben is, at least, grateful that the car is moving quickly.

The doors open thirty seconds later, opening into an atrium that stretches the first two floors of the building. There’s a small observation floor just above him, complete with partial-glass floors and railings where tourists like to come to gawk at businesspeople. A huddle of children giggles somewhere above him, one or two of them peeling off the group to run ahead. Ben hears a mother scold her child.

“Please,” he breathes. “It’s okay. I’m getting a cab. Will you please tell me where you are?”

He crosses the polished floors in a diagonal, making a beeline for the small exit on the side street where Ubers and Lyfts usually loiter. It’s illegal, and the practice causes traffic jams, but right now he’s just grateful for the convenience.

The rubber soles of his work shoes squeak on the polished tile floors.

Of course, there’s still the issue of where exactly he’s trying to go. He stops in his tracks; it doesn’t really make sense to hop in a car just to talk to her, does it? What if she never gives her location up? If that happens, it’s just cheaper to stand here and talk to her until—

“ _G-guh—_ ”

Ben actually jumps when intelligible sound comes from the other end of the phone. “Omega?”

An aggravated huff replies.

“Gree—” there’s a cough. A thrill runs up and down his spine; he’s thrilled to hear what he presumes is her voice. Somehow, it sounds like her— _instantly_ sounds like her—even punctuated by throaty rasps and stutters that he assumes must accompany a bad cold. There’s something in it, some quality, that the alpha in him recognizes immediately.

My _omega._

“GREE. St- _UH—_ ”

“Green street?”

It’s a wild guess: he hopes it lands.

She doesn’t say yes—in fairness, she still hasn’t really said _words_ —but there’s a hum that he thinks constitutes agreement.

Green street makes sense; it’s relatively near his apartment, up and opposite the side of the docks. It’s near warehouses and shipyards. He thinks the big Greenpoint crane lot is on that road.

“Cross-street?” Ben prompts.

The omega on the other end coughs again, vocal cords sounding suppressed, like someone has a hand wrapped around her throat.

“M—uh—” there’s another cough, one of great effort. Ben flinches; his eyebrows knit together. Something within his ribcage tugs. “Miiiii—ck—”

The noise comes slowly, each syllable drawn out. Her voice sounds slightly mutated, like the sounds she intends to produce aren’t quite what come out.

“Mick—Mc—Gu—”

“McGuinness.”

He finishes it for her. There’s no need to draw this out, not if she truly has such a terrible cough.

“Okay,” he prompts, more to himself than to her. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He paces in one spot, turning in a frantic circle. “I’m coming—”

He throws one of the heavy brass doors open, freezing New York air nipping at his nose. The wind chill is brutal; it whips his hair, makes tunnel sounds in his ears. Ben raises a large hand, flagging down a cab idling a few meters to his left. It’s easier than using an app service anyways.

He finds himself diving headfirst into the backseat of the cab. It smells strange—they always do—like onions and hot dog stands and the dirt of the city. The faux-leather seats are dirtied and worn, but Ben doesn’t mind. He only presses the cell phone closer to his ear.

“Green Street and McGuinness in Greenpoint. And punch it—” it comes out a little too gruff, “—please.”

“Buddy,” a classic New York-Italian accent greets him, “I don’t control the roads.”

“Look—”

“No, _you_ look, alpha.” Ben stares at the man in the mirror hanging on the dash. He feels his nostrils flare, runs his tongue over teeth that threaten to bare themselves. “You wanna get there in one piece? Then we go on my schedule. Which means not speeding in the fucking snow.”

The testosterone surging through his bloodstream urges him to fight, to dominate. But he bites his tongue, bites back a retort for once, and falls quiet.

He speaks into the phone instead. “I’m coming.”

Ben hears only silence: just the whistle of the wind blowing against the phone on the other end.

His heart jolts.

“Omega?”

He’s not sure he can take losing her again, not after being defibrillated with hope like this—

Then he hears her again: the little whimpers, higher-pitched and shriller. The desperation in the tiny sounds are unmistakable.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

There’s another noise: a little sniffle.

“You’re okay. I’m gonna be there soon. Are you hungry?”

There’s a pause, then another soft hum follows.

“We’ll get something to eat, then, when I get there. Does that sound good? Anything you want.”

He waits for a hum that doesn’t come, resting his forehead on the frosty glass of the taxi. He watches the streets of Manhattan slowly trudge by, each moment he waits in traffic creeping closer to what he’s sure will be the death of him. It’s a terrible feeling, being trapped like this. Everything about the moment feels urgent—and the hormones only make that sense of urgency worse.

His gland pounds out of its burrow in his neck. Ben feels himself sweating through his undershirt, but he doesn’t dare move to wipe his brow; there’s no telling how the cabbie might react if he goes spreading his scent everywhere, even if on accident.

So instead he waits, doing his best to mimic the soothing coos that omegas make for each other, for pups. It’s a pathetic attempt, he thinks, but it’s the best he can do; he’s too worried to purr.

The little noises from the other end continue, seemingly less and less frequent. Each time she does make noise, it sounds worse: more tired, hungrier. Colder.

He can hardly imagine her standing alone, on a street corner, in a bad part of Greenpoint, in the snowfall.

It makes him feel like a failure.

“I’m close,” he lies when they pull off the Williamsburg Bridge. He’s just glad they managed to avoid Dumbo; those streets would be a nightmare at this hour, luxury vehicles slipping and sliding in the muck in rich hipsters’ attempts to get back to their trendy lofts. “Are you still there?”

Just as soon as he hears a nervous hum, another voice comes on the line.

It’s cold, precise—an automated recording.

_“Excuse me. Please deposit 5 cents for the next 2 minutes or your call will be terminated. Thank you for using NYNEX. This is a recording.”_

And that—that makes Ben’s heart jolt.

“Omega?”

A loud, shrill whine.

“Omega?”

_“Terminating in five seconds—”_

“Omega!”

Another loud, bleating cry—

_“Two.”_

“STAY THERE—”

_“One.”_

He exhales, all the air forced out of his lungs in silent horror.

_“Disconnecting now. Thank you for using NYNEX payphones. Goodbye.”_

Ben growls a string of curse words; his particularly choice obscenities earn him a stern look from the cabbie, who clutches a string of rosary beads off the dash.

“Watch your mouth, buddy.”

But Ben can’t watch his mouth. He can’t do anything but feel the pounding of his heart in his chest.

Each second he spends holed up in the cab is another second she could be changing her mind, walking away from him, or just _alone_.

Alone in the cold.

He feels like he might be sick. His temples burn with fever.

“Here,” he says, thrusting money at the cabbie when they near a familiar crossroads. “Just take it—let me out—”

The man doesn’t need to be told twice.

The vehicle stops abruptly—Ben smacks his head against the headrest—and he practically tumbles out of the car.

His legs carry him the rest of the way. _Somehow,_ cold air streaming through sweat-drenched hair, freezing little strands of it, _this feels right._

Running towards her, hurtling his body through trillions of atoms at a time to get to her— _that_ feels right.

His shoes crunch on the snow beneath them, soles barely enough to keep him from slipping and splitting his skull open. He runs on the ice anyway; he prays cars won’t pull out of any of the side streets he darts in front of without looking first.

Ben reaches Green Street and McGuinness just as his lungs burn with effort. His throat feels simultaneously frozen and scorched as he gasps for breath.

He sees it, there, at the end of the street.

The payphone.

Long strides carry him towards it, desperate eyes searching for a familiar frame.

He needs her. He needs her. He just needs to see her, anywhere, _where is she_ —

Hands fly up to grasp at either side of his forehead.

His entire chest shudders and compresses.

_She’s not here. She’s not here. Shesnothere—_

It’s the coldest, harshest dagger he’s ever felt. The icy spike of panic stabs him in the stomach; unwelcome warmth pricks his eyes.

He’s going to cry. He’s going to cry, right here, in public, alpha male be damned—

That is, until he looks in the window of the shop on the very corner.

There’s a girl, pressed into the nook of a booth, shivering against the glass.

He looks at her. She looks at him.

There’s a flash of recognition, a deep breath of relief.

His eyes drink in the sight of her; just for a moment, he revels in the inexplicable flood of heat through his veins.

Then his line of sight falls to just below where the rise and fall of her lungs mirrors his.

He stares, for a long moment, through the window, at the rounded belly she cradles.

Ben presses his fingertips to the pane of glass.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should edit this more... but I'm not going to, because I want to go to sleep. #mood.

Brothers Pizza is your typical family-owned pizza place. It’s run by, _yes_ , four brothers—each with a deeper Brooklyn accent than the last. Red booths line the walls, scratches from years of wear-and-tear etched into the hard plastic. Frescos are painted on either wall—I mean, who _doesn’t_ want to feel some good ‘ole Catholic guilt while shoveling greasy cheese-bread—but they’re terribly tacky. They may have been going for _Ecce Homo_ , but they got _Ecce Mono_.

Ben shoves his hands in his pockets. Stale air hits him first, followed by the surprisingly pleasant smell of baking loaves. He can smell the light tang of homemade tomato sauce over the musty layer of dust that rests on the plastic plant to his right. He can tell already: it’s the kind of place you either have the best meal of your life or emerge with food poisoning. No in-between.

He passes taped-over signs— _Rate Us On TripAdvisor_ ; _People Love Us On Yelp!_ —and makes his way towards the booth. _The_ booth.

The omega is huddled on one end, comparatively tiny body pressed into the far corner. She leans against the window, breath fogging it over where her lips hover. The rubber of his soles tap lightly against the grimy tiles of the floor, where specs of dirt lay mashed into each of four corners.

The sound of his footsteps alone is enough to make her stir.

She jolts a little when he pauses at the end of her side of the booth. Hands in his pockets, he’s an impressive sight. A gray undershirt clings to his chest where he’s unbuttoned his casual button-down. The obligatory work tie hangs loose around his neck; he tugged it loose sometime during the car ride, desperate to get at the aching gland underneath.

It’s nearly scratched raw, of course, but she seems to barely notice. Instead, she casts her eyes down and away; she makes herself smaller, knobby knees curling up past the lip of the tabletop and towards her chest.

Ben has imagined what he might say to her if something like this ever happened. He thought he knew how it would go—how he might scream, or yell, or cry. He thought he knew how he might pour his heart out, how he might go about letting her know what she’s done to him. Somehow, he always imagined her as some impassive, reticent force.

Instead, the creature before him utters a soft peep.

Maybe this is how the confrontation happens, then: not with a bang but a whimper.

He opens his mouth. Then he closes it.

Then he opens again.

The motion is repeated several times over, each iteration leaving him feeling more defeated than the last.

Surely, it’s time for serious conversation—so much has happened—and he needs to get things off his chest—needs resolution, to be heard—

“Do you want pizza?”

He swallows; his throat bobs.

The omega’s eyelids flutter. Her lips press together and pout. The lower one trembles.

“We can go somewhere else if you want something different?”

A long pause follows. She shifts in place, shoulders falling a little from where they clung tightly to her body. She lets her knees go; her legs move until little feet swing lightly underneath the booth. Her eyes dart around, fixed on the floor.

There’s a small, indifferent shrug.

Ben feels for the wallet in his back pocket.

“Pizza, then?”

The pause is shorter this time. Her feet swing back and forth freely now. He finds himself staring at them, covered in tattered canvas and hand-painted—poorly—with what looks like a child’s paint set. It’s a bad job; perhaps something out of the free bin at the nearest salvage center. He wonders if they’re even her size.

The rest of her clothing is similarly tatty and ill-fitting. A faded grey dress hangs loosely off a too-small frame—except where it bunches up dramatically over her stomach, now too-large with pups. It looks all wrong, how the shit-brown hoodie swallows her body whole and drowns out any other curve of her body.

It’s not how an omega should look: ill-cared for, thrown away.

It’s not how _his_ omega should look.

He swallows down the bitter surge of guilt and promises himself that he’ll get her into proper maternity clothes. Or his own clothes, even; _anything_ would be better than this.

She takes a breath—it rattles her chest and interrupts his thoughts—before nodding stiffly.

Pizza it is.

Ben approaches the counter wallet-in-hand. He carries himself with a no-nonsense attitude that precludes the cashier, a beta, from asking him about their wildly mismatched coupling.

“That’ll be $15.99, sir,” the man says, dark eyes still looking between him and the omega somewhere behind.

He’s ordered a large cheese. It seems simple enough, he hopes, given that he doesn’t know if she has any allergies—and given that she refuses to talk, it’s unlikely he’ll get anything more in the way of her tastes—

Large fingers fumble with the chip insert; a brief beep alerts him, a second later, that the transaction has completed.

The young man behind the counter hands him a thin paper slip.

 _Order number 73_.

“Thanks.”

It’s a tense interaction—he can feel the weight of the cashier’s eyes on him all the way back to the booth—but Ben is used to it. It’s just another day of Alphadom—just another day of living under the constant suspicion of others.

He folds his body with relative grace and scoots into the booth. His frame fills the space between the back of the seat and the beginning of the table-top; unlike the frail thing across from him, he has no such space to stretch out.

The omega refuses to meet his eyes. She chews on her lip, one entire half of her lower lip sucked between teeth. Her cheeks hollow and flush with effort; the thin skin of her lip is, no doubt, going to emerge split and reddened.

“There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

They’re not comforting words, nor are they meant to be. She squirms in her seat; she knows as much, he’s sure.

Ben takes a deep, deep breath. The air fills lungs that refuse to compress and expand like usual. Instead, his chest feels crushed—like an invisible weight is set atop him, wedging him between the hard surfaces of logic and love, threatening to squeeze all breath out of him.

He takes another.

“But I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything tonight. Or that you need to explain yourself, right here, right now, in the space of an hour.” He chews on his own lip. “That would be a bit ridiculous.”

The little feet under the table stop swinging; the booth stills. Her lip, bloodied and glistening, slips out of her mouth. She stares in earnest at him, green eyes finally meeting his.

It feels just as he remembered it: there’s a rush of warm air, a rush of blood that heats his body, singes his veins, makes him feel fiercely protective and softly tender in one.

“So,” he starts, shifting in his own seat, “let’s just eat. And you can tell me what you want to. Nothing more; not tonight. Then we’ll go home—” he casts a long look at her belly, stringing together the words that follow with great resignation “if that’s what you want, that is.”

She casts a quick glance out the window, then back at him. A glimmer of gratefulness shines in her eyes; he thinks he might even see tears forming in their waterlines.

Then she blinks, and any emotion that might have been is gone.

She nods.

He waits, expectantly, for her to say something— _anything_.

Nothing comes.

Ben quirks his head to one side.

“Well?”

He does his best to tamp down the edge of annoyance.

She visibly swallows; the omega shifts in her seat again, bringing her willowy legs up to rest crossed underneath her. It’s undignified, but at least enough gray material hangs between her legs to cover her up. Ben supposes he has bigger problems.

The omega raises a hand, thin and pale, and gestures once at her throat.

“You don’t feel like talking.”

There’s a pause—another of the kind that seems to define their interactions. She wrings her hands together, just once, and pulls a discouraged face.

There’s an indecisive shake of her head.

“Not that?”

She shakes her head again, gesturing back at her throat.

“Sick?”

The omega blinks a few times in rapid succession. She glances down, scratching at one temple, and shrugs narrow shoulders.

Ben leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. He lets his head fall into broad palms, doing his best to suppress the groan that threatens. He doesn’t know what she _means_ —

He rubs at his eyes.

This is a mess. This is all a mess.

“I don’t even know your name,” he says when he shifts to fold his arms and rest against the backboard.

A muscle in her cheek jumps. A tiny little smile seems to play at the edge of one side of her mouth—or maybe he’s imagining things.

He gestures, with a single hand, at the small plastic cup of crayons that sits at the edge of the table.

“Want to tell me? That seems like a good start.”

The omega’s lips quiver. There’s a twitch of hesitation. Then, slowly, assent spreads across her features. Her cheeks seem more coloured now, more alive, and—

“One large cheese,” a waiter butts in, setting a large tray down upon the tabletop. The pie sizzles with heat, cheese bubbling over the surface, its pockets’ very tops seared a golden brown.

Ben clutches a hand to one stomach when he hears it growl—then realizes a moment later that it wasn’t his after all, but rather—

“So we just wanted to thank you for your business. We’ve been family owned since 1938 right here in the heart of Greenpoint, and—”

He shoots the man a look; the employee fails to notice the implicit dismissal.

_Fucking betas._

“—we source our dairy from farms in White Plains, and—”

Ben rolls his eyes in simple annoyance, but a bigger problem brews across from him. He nears another soft rumble and flinches at the sound. The pallor of her face stands out under the fluorescent light of the place, accenting cheekbones that look more of starvation than of style.

The omega shifts uncomfortably across from him, hungry eyes directed with laser focus at the steaming food.

“Excuse me,” he cuts across the man, who falls indignantly silent. Ben swallows and speaks again. “Sorry—can you excuse us?"

The young man’s eyebrows jump to his forehead. All pretense of professional courtesy is dropped in an instant. His shoulders shrug; he huffs.

“Honestly,” he mutters, turning on a single heel and storming back to the kitchen area, “I don’t know how anyone stands alphas.”

Ben finds himself too sympathetic for the creature across from him to care much about the minor slight. He watches, chest squeezing in on itself, as she leans forward.

He pushes the tray closer to her, ignoring how the hot shiny metal burns his thumb.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, soft and warm and gentle. He means it. It’s okay. “Have some.”

The omega blinks again, soft-looking eyelashes fluttering over the most beautiful eyes he thinks he’s ever seen. He watches stick-thin arms emerge from the arms of the hoodie, which she pushes up to her elbows; he watches as he takes hold of the pizza wheel with surprising strength and cuts a huge slice out of the pie.

She drags it back onto her paper plate with no hesitation at all and, before the moment is up, the smaller end of the greasy triangle is shoved in her mouth.

If he was hoping for a resigned, ladylike display, he would’ve been disappointed.

Luckily, Ben finds he couldn’t care less.

Instead, he watches, transfixed, as the colour comes back to her. She makes tiny noises of contentment, eating with a zeal that fills him with all parts wonder and no parts disgust.

When she reaches for a purple crayon, he hardly notices.

Only when the three letters are drawn out in large, shaky handwriting, does his attention shift from her.

_R  E  Y._


	11. Eleven

Rey. Rey.

 _Rey_.

“That’s a nice name.”

The omega across from him stirs momentarily. She utters a soft hum. A little smile plays at the edge of her lips, but it looks to him like she tries to suppress it.

It’s gone entirely the next moment.

She bites further into the triangle of pizza, eyes downcast at her lap.

There’s a rushed quality to her eating—like the food might just up and animate and run away. It’s clear, not least of which by her decline in weight, that proper meals aren’t something that she comes by often.

Ben clenches and unclenches his fists, forcing them to stay down by his sides so he doesn’t frighten her. It’s not like he’s angry at _her_ —

“Are you,” he starts, then thinks better of it. His tongue occupies space in his mouth awkwardly, twisting like it’s trying to find just the right words.

“Were you—”

He stops again. That’s not it either.

He wants to ask if she’s _okay_. But then, of course she’s not, is she? She just spent untold months on the streets—or, best-case scenario, in Brooklyn shelters that are underfunded at best.

He knows, too, that bringing it up is only liable to make her upset. What if something terrible happened to her? What if there are things she doesn’t _want_ to remember?

The alpha inside him wants to huff in frustration: how is he supposed to help her—take care of her—if there’s no way of even knowing what she’s been through?

His lips flatten into a thin, tight line.

The omega— _Rey_ , he corrects himself—tilts her head. She stares at him curiously, eyebrows pulled into an expression of concern that makes his heart beat faster.

He clears his throat.

“Sorry, I—” he searches for the words, willing them to come to mind, “I just wanted to know how you’re feeling.”

It comes out a little shaky—not measured and firm like an alpha should speak. He’s losing control, and that’s a problem. He bites the inside of his cheek in frustration.

A pink blush spreads across her features. But again, it lasts only a moment before it, too, vanishes. A more serious expression crosses her face—one that suggests struggle, and hardship, and regret—and she simply shrugs her shoulders.

 _Fine_ , it suggests. _I’m fine_.

Just fine, though, and not an ounce more.

Ben chews the soft lining of his cheek, brows knit together now.

“Is there—” He stops. “Is there something I can do?” He pauses, hesitant, not wanting to sound pushy, “You’re still welcome to come home with me. I hope you will.”

The omega takes a last bite of crust, refusing to meet his eyes, and wipes grease from her fingers with a white paper napkin. She reaches for another stack of them before cutting herself another generous portion of the pie, hauling it onto her plate unceremoniously.

She pauses, too, taking a long moment where all he can hear are the little puffs of air leaving her nostrils. Then she shrugs again, lighter this time, and follows it up by nodding her head.

“Yes?”

Ben needs confirmation—and what he wants is _enthusiastic_ confirmation. Whether he’ll get it, of course, is another story—and it seems unlikely. All things considered, it’s a good deal for her: safe place to stay, alpha to protect and provide. He can’t imagine why she wouldn’t jump at the chance.

Where he hopes for a bright smile and quick assent, he gets only a Pan Am smile and averted eyes.

There’s a nervousness about her: a constant anxiety that colours their every interaction.

“You don’t have to,” he says, quietly, each word slow to leave his lips. “Come home with me, that is. You don’t have to.”

It pains him to say, especially when all the instinct within him demands that he give her no choice; it tempts him, instead, to bite the nape of her neck, force her into the bonds of mated life, drag her home and deposit her safely in the nest where she belongs.

But he swallows, anxious, instead. Some part of him knows that any hope of a lasting relationship rests on her ability to refuse, even if it’s the very last thing he ever wants to hear.

A little frustrated huff comes from across the table. He looks up; she’s put the slice down, now, and is biting the nails on one hand.

She meets his eyes, then looks away. Then they dart back.

It’s his turn to cock his head.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say with surprising softness. “I don’t know how to—what to—”

He swallows, hard. His throat bobs.

Ben plants his elbows on the table and allows his head to sag, covering his face with his palms. It’s one of the worst feelings he’s ever had: confused, seemingly helpless, hopelessly out of control and embarrassing himself in front of an omega. An _omega_ : a creature he’s supposed to provide the answers for, a creature he’s supposed to guide. He’s never felt more useless, never felt—

Small, cold fingers wrap around his wrists. He blinks his eyes open, pulling away from his hands just far enough to stare at the omega across from him. She’s reached out, little arms extended towards him, to grasp at him.

He looks to where their bodies meet, then to her, then back.

She only blinks once, twice, and wide eyes searching his. There’s a gentle tug at his wrists; he lowers them, slowly, onto the table.

Silence passes between them. Ben isn’t sure, for a long moment, whether he considers the act a failure or a victory. Emotional vulnerability isn’t encouraged—not when you’re an alpha. It’s beaten out of you early in the educational system. Even male betas are told, implicitly or otherwise, that they shouldn’t cry. For alpha males, though, that masculine script is dialed up tenfold.

He feels too-raw as he sits here, large hands guided by small ones.

If there’s any silver lining, he thinks, at least it’s that she’s sweet. He may be incapable of living up to alpha expectations, but she seems the model omega.

Comforting. Understanding. _Mothering_.

He chokes back all hints of emotion and pitches his voice deeper.

“How are,” he starts, clearing his voice again, “how are you feeling? With the pregnancy?”

Rey pursues her lips, considerate. She withdraws her hands—slowly, because the moment has passed, not out of disapproval—and crosses them in her lap. One atop the other, they press to the very top of her growing belly.

Truthfully, she looks large for five-and-some-odd months. Unusually so. Alpha pups are known for their size, sure, but the willowy omega looks especially weighed down by the growing bulge. Perhaps it’s because the rest of her has wasted away in the meantime.

Ben flinches at the thought.

The girl hums again, this time longer than usual, and nods her head. Her eyes focus on her belly, hands stroking once in a circular pattern.

When she meets his eyes, she shrugs again.

 _Okay_.

“Is that how you found me?” he asks.

Her brows knit together; she tilts her head to one side.

“The basket?”

More confusion drifts across her face.

“I—sorry. I thought maybe…”

His voice trails off. It seems pathetic, somehow, to explain what great lengths he went to in hopes of finding her. It makes him sound creepy, desperate—even to himself. But she stares at him, eyes imploring him to answer, and he finds he can’t bite the words back.

“I left care packages outside my apartment,” Ben starts, staring out the window instead of meeting her gaze. It’s easier that way. “In case you came back. I thought—with the weather changing—when it got cold—”

He wrings his hands once, scowling at himself.

“Well, anyway. There were some prenatals in there, what with the heat and all. I thought maybe that’s how you got my phone number: I put it in the basket, too.”

When he finally looks back to her, she shakes her head. She regards him curiously—warmly, even, he thinks. Maybe he’s being too hopeful; in all likelihood, his mind is just playing tricks on him.

She holds her hands up and mimes a box, making lots of vertical motions at the bottom of the rectangle she draws with her pointer fingers.

 _The flyer he posted_.

“Oh.” He says. “That.”

She nods.

“Well,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I’m glad you found that. Really glad. Especially with—” Ben gestures at her growing bump.

A definite smile lights up her face now. It’s brief, but it’s warm, and bright, and it makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. He thinks he hears himself chuckle, though everything manages to somehow sound distant. It’s surreal, really, being here with her. He could swear that he’s dreaming.

“Is the pup healthy?”

He regrets it the minute the words leave his lips; for some reason, the question makes her face fall.

Instantly, his heart seems to stop.

She bites her lower lip, eyes dropping again. They dart around frantically as they gaze at the hands in her lap—it’s almost like she’s searching for an escape.

“Omega?”

He knows it’s not the right thing to do, but he can’t help but issue it as an alpha command. Her eyes snap to his, widening under his influence, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It feels wrong—manipulative and slimy and wrong—but at least it assures an answer.

Her eyes well with tears. One escapes, sliding hotly down one cheek, leaving a wet path in its wake.

She shakes her head no with a furious kind of vigor that makes him feel uneasy.

“No?”

She only shakes her head more, more tears following. Little limbs tremble. Her lips pout and her chest shudders, suffocating a sob that wracks her ribcage.

Ben sinks into the white-hot trance of alpha concentration summoned by a moment like this. He slips out of his seat, sliding into her side before she can refuse him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, dragging her close to him.

She seems to calm, just slightly, head drooping to rest against his chest. Her breathing slows, gradually, though his heart continues to beat with unresolved anxiety.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, deep and smooth, trying to compel a further answer. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

She sniffles, raising a hand to wipe at her nose, before pulling back from the warm expanse of his chest.

When she glances up at him, her eyes are full of fear.

Her lips part—pink and puffy and swollen—and she begins to mouth words.

 _I don’t know_.

Ben stares for a long moment, hand stroking her back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“You…don’t know?”

She nods, a new wave of tears forming in her waterlines.

“You don’t know if the pup is healthy.”

She nods, faster this time, face twisting in a way that can only convey shame and hopelessness.

She lurches forward, burying her face in the warmth between his arm and his left breast, and heaves a sob.

The realization dawns on him in the next moment, heavy and repressive and terrible.

“You haven’t seen a doctor. All this time, and you haven’t been able to see a doctor.”

Another sob, this time more pained. A small hand fists at the front of his shirt, tearing a button from the Oxford that he’s unlikely to fix.

He turns—turns his entire body—and wraps the other arm around her. He strokes evenly down her back, one hand resting in the small of it, and purrs as gently as he can manage.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and deep and close to cracking if he can’t manage to keep it under control. “I’m so sorry.”

The omega sniffles and cries; he holds her close, whispers promises that it’ll all be okay, that everything is fine, that there’s nothing they can’t fix—that, more than likely, the pup is fine, and they’ll get medical care in time, and he’ll take good care of her.

He kisses her forehead when she comes up her air. Then he tucks her head into his neck and strokes her hair gently as he rests one broad palm on her belly.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

He means it.

He feels the thrum of multiple heartbeats in response.

 


	12. Twelve

Ben wishes it would last forever: holding her, here, in the domesticity of a pizza parlor no less. He wants to leave his hand on her belly, wants to feel the pups moving and kicking. It reminds him a quote he heard in a story told at _The Moth_ : that living is terrible sometimes, but there are these perfect life moments, and that’s enough.

His tongue occupies space in his mouth lazily as he thinks over the words, perfectly content to quietly watch the snowfall outside. She isn’t, though: content, that is. She wiggles in his arms after a long moment, signaling a desire to scurry away, to never be held again. Ben sets his jaw, braces for the pain of tugging away from her, waits to hear the alpha voice in his head demand an explanation.

He suppresses a sigh and pulls away from her. It’s what she wants, after all: her body has gone still and rigid against his.

He folds his hands over his lap. He crosses one foot over another without noticing. He bounces his leg.

There’s still _that_ issue, of course: the issue of the litter. It stirs contradiction inside him—excitement and anxiety both—and he finds he’s almost scared to know what she thinks of it all.

The heartbeats shouldn’t have surprised him; they had, after all, had sex on her heat. She’s young, he’s young, alpha and omega, the ultimate in compatibility, and—

It strikes him, just then, that he doesn’t know how old she is. The realization adds another storm to the flurry of thought already clouding his brain. His heart speeds up; he becomes aware of his own breathing, of each panicked intake of stale air.

“Hey,” he says too-suddenly, too-quickly. She—Rey—flinches. Ben knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that he needs to make a conscious effort to temper his tone as to not scare her; his natural speaking voice comes out too masculine, too commanding. Accusatory, even. “How old are you?”

Equally panicked eyes meet his; her lower lip trembles.

A small hand grabs the same crayon she used to write her name with—

Ben forces himself to breath—air in, air out, through the mouth, out the nose—and prays that the hot pinpricks of existential fear tingling in his scalp are just from an abundance of caution. He prays that she’s a young-looking twenty, an adult, that this wasn’t all a massive fuck-up that he’d never even stopped to consider, piece of shit that he is—

 _1_.

The first digit. It’s written in red crayon, its singular line streaking down the page accompanied by flakes of waxy byproduct.

Every voice in Ben’s head falls silent now; he hears only the deafening sound of his own blood rushing through his ears.

 _Fuck. Shit. Fuck fuck fuck_ —

 _9_.

And just like that, another crisis avoided. Another heart attack postponed until later.

He slumps back in his seat, though he wonders if he’ll ever truly feel relieved again.

How can he be expected to be a father—to be a provider—when he doesn’t know the first thing about her? He’s failed, failed so dramatically—and all before they’ve even started. Before he’s even taken her come for real, given her a place to stay—before the pups even arrive. He’s already a failure. There’s no path forward for him; no light left in Ben Solo.

He feels the hot pressure of tears forming in his eyes, but he sniffles them away, choking out a cough to mask the emotion.

“I—uh—” he coughs again. “That’s good. Good.” His chin quivers, but only for a moment. Then it’s gone. “19 is good.”

The omega just stares at him, brown eyes regarding him with confusion. He thinks there’s a hint of distrust there, too—or maybe a truckload of it. He can’t tell, and he finds that lingering on it only makes him sadder.

“Are you in pain? With the pups, that is?”

She tilts her head; her brows knit together, deepening the confusion on her face. Her lips—a chapped, light pink-white—part very slightly. Then, after a moment, they close again, this time forming a tight smile.

She shrugs.

If she’s as uncomfortable as her expression is, she needs relief _yesterday_.

Ben tries to smile sympathetically.

“I’m sorry. It must be hard, having carrying them and all. I probably should have—” he pauses, mulling over the words, not wanting to run the risk of her thinking she did a single thing wrong when in her heat. She simply following instinct—let him mount her—and nature took its course.

 _He’s_ the one who should’ve been more considerate.

 _He’s_ the one that should’ve grabbed a pack of alpha condoms first.

He bites off the second portion of the sentence.

Then he shrugs, too, trying to manage the gesture with a lightness that he hopes sets her at ease.

“It’ll be okay, though,” he murmurs, “we’ll go to one of the OBs that specializes in omega delivery. I’m sure they’ve dealt with a litter or two before. They must have—”

Ben’s paternal soliloquy is cut off by a short, strangled cry.

The observational instinct in him has him looking around the room for its source; then, with no small amount of horror, he realizes that it’s emerged from _her_.

Small hands—paler than he remembers, dry and cracked from the cold—speed to her belly. She clutches at the bump frantically, eyes speeding between him and _it_.

 _Them_.

And that—that’s when he realizes he’s made another massive fuck-up.

“The pups,” he breathes, larger hand gesturing inadvertently, crowding her space in a way he probably shouldn’t be, “Didn’t you—?”

Ben doesn’t need to finish the words to get confirmation that _no, she didn’t_.

She didn’t know she was having a litter.

He doesn’t know how it’s even possible—terrible sex ed? _No_ sex ed? Maybe this whole thing is a super messed up fever dream—and, worse, he’s not even remotely sure how to comfort her.

She retreats against the glass adjacent to their booth, presses her back flush to the frozen pane. She shivers—maybe reflexively, maybe out of fear—and stares at him with the wide, scared eyes he’s come to know all too well.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he murmurs, reaching for her.

She lashes out just as she did the very first time they met, uttering a fierce hiss that seems impossible from her diminutive frame. But she _does_ manage to sound threatening, and the alpha in him—pissed as it may be—gets overruled by the instinct to pull away from a hostile creature.

He holds up his hands, a kind of peace gesture he hopes will tamper down the flare of emotion.

It doesn’t.

She hisses again, louder this time, and lunges in a way her rounded midriff doesn’t quite jive with. She sways, balance lost, and catches herself on whitened knuckles before she can smack the side of her head into the table.

“Hey—” he protests, trying to sound understanding—

She keens a low warning whine that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; an angry, insolent omega is just against the natural order of things. It’s not supposed to happen—it rarely does—and he finds the whole display deeply unnerving. If he felt like a failure before, this makes him feel even less equipped to handle the challenges of caring for another complex being.

And that’s not even it, is it? His eyes rake over her, careful in their assessment; he does his best not to earn another outburst—he’s worried that the waitstaff will notice—but the omega seems less than pleased with his wandering eyes. His gaze sweeps over for arms, looking for bruises, nicks, cuts, scrapes—evidence of hardship on the street. Surely she’s had to survive somehow; surely there have been less-than-savory encounters. He wonders, throat bobbing, what she’s lived through.

Ben doesn’t spend too much time wondering, though, because a little fist rockets out and punches him squarely in the chest. It’s only a light blow—really, it’s funnier to him than it is painful—but his ego bruises nonetheless. More pressing, though, is the sense of insecure panic rising within him. He needs to get the situation under control, and fast—and he has absolutely no idea how to.

He scoots to the very end of the bench, does his best to give her physical space as she again retreats against the window pane to glare. She rubs idly at her belly, alternating between the classic, loving strokes he would expect of an omega mother and a more hysterical, anguished scratching that has him growing more concerned with every passing second.

Too much of the stress hormone and the pups will start feeling it, too. He can’t imagine that would be good for them—especially not when combined with months of untold malnutrition, a complete lack of medical care to date, and what he can only imagine has been questionable sleep at very best.  

It’s a potentially deadly cocktail of factors that have his sense of urgency reeling out of control.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, as low and deep and rich as he can. He purrs, channeling all of his effort into producing the low, vibrating frequency that’s supposed to resonate with an omega.

Rey, down the bench from him, seems unaffected.

He extends his hand; she bares her teeth.

When he tries, slowly, gently, to pet her—to get a good angle on her gland, for maybe he can sneak a quick lick that’s all but guaranteed to pacify her—she lunges forward again.

Teeth that need regular dental care snap at him and he, in an instant, reacts reflexively. His arms move to grip her, wrapping completely around the struggling creature. He drags her closer to him along the polished piece of wood; strangled, shredded, coarse cries of opposition escape her throat.

They fill the entire store and draw the attention of what he can only assume is everyone in the entire goddamn neighborhood.

“Shush,” he mouths the command, swiping aside a tangled mat of hair that rests on one shoulder. Then, softer, as she squirms, he repeats the sentiment. “Hush.”

He dips his lips to the spot on her neck and bites down.

She stills immediately, tension in her body released in an instant. She slumps a little against his chest, head lolling against his upper sternum. There’s a little whine—a softer, happier, more content one—and then she falls silent, lips smacking lightly as if she’s a milk-drunk infant on the high of a mother’s nursing.

Ben holds her, manages to finally breathe a stable breath, and strokes down her back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, quietly, finally kissing the side of her forehead, “It’s the only way I know.”

It’ll scab over in time, of course. She can even take another mate one day—though the thought makes his heart bluster with absolute fear and untenable jealousy—and that chance could come as soon as six months if he doesn’t maintain his mark. He doesn’t _plan_ to… but some situations—some things—just need to be controlled.

 _That_ is the moment he feels it; the dull _thwack!_ of a rolled-up newspaper on the expanse of his back.

“Blood-sucker! Night creature! Alpha scum! Get out!”

It’s the cashier, come for his revenge. Ben only manages a huff and the simple roll of his eyes.

Of course this should happen; she’s just made the loudest-ever ruckus by a female omega, and now he’s just had the wonderful sense to bite her mating gland in public.

“We’re going—”

“Get! OUT!”

The beta man screams the words more than he says them, newspaper smacking Ben’s back in increasingly hard blows. It impacts the back of his neck the next moment— “Hey— _fuck_ —that stings!”—and Ben does his best to scoop the compliant little creature up in his arms, to wriggle out of the tight squeeze of the booth, and to dodge hits to his upper body as he’s made to flee the restaurant.

“OUT!”


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some happy to offset the sad.
> 
> Also, sorry for not replying to the comments. I do read them (and love and appreciate them! All of them!) I'm just a beat of an awkward bean and I often don't know what to say. But really, they do mean a lot, so please don't be discouraged if I don't reply! It's not you, it's me (and this time, that's actually the truth).

He holds the little creature close to his chest as he steps out into the freezing night. The pizzeria door slams shut behind him, its little string of jingle bells clattering against the glass door. A blind is pulled shut over it in the next moment, blocking out the warm florescent light of the shop. Ben falls into darkness, standing still on the corner of the road, and watches as his breath fogs in front of him.

The omega in the arms stirs, only slightly, no doubt bothered by the cold. He has two arms under her—one under her knees, one supporting her upper back—and nestles her head into the junction of his collar bone and neck. It offers her some slight protection at least, he thinks; the chilled skin of her face presses into the warmth of his gland. He shivers, only for a moment, before casting the thrill of pleasure out-of-mind.

Right now, he has bigger problems to handle: getting her home, for starters.

They’re only a few blocks from his apartment, but the impending threat of inclement weather seems too big a risk to take. Several blocks may not be much, but the thought of slipping on black ice—losing his grip on the omega, jostling her around—makes him flinch. It’s not a risk he can take.

She stirs again, hips rolling a bit in his arms as he glances both ways down the street, hoping for a nearby taxi. She’s hormone-drunk now, endorphins from the mating bite stream through her system, calming nerves and soothing her previous anxieties. Her eyelids droop casually, muscles relaxed. The way an omega should be, he thinks vaguely, taking a moment to gaze down at her. It’s not right to leave such a gentle creature to suffer—to let her wallow in her fear of the unknown. He’ll take care of her; he’s here.

He _had_ to bite her. It was the only way.

_Right?_

She blinks slowly, unlabored, little lips parted in what he hopes is wonder. She gazes up at him and, for the first time, doesn’t seem afraid.

“Alpha’s here,” he murmurs to her, rocking her almost imperceptibly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

He hopes she believes him.

If she doesn’t, she doesn’t show it; the tension in her neck releases the next moment, allowing her head to rest comfortably against his right shoulder. He feels the light smack of lips against his gland and struggles not to groan in pleasure.

Not in public—not here. Probably not while she’s in this state, either. He should at least let the new rush of hormones wear off a bit.

So he busies himself, instead, with tracking down a taxi. He walks—careful with his footing—the rest of the length to the nearest crossroads, looking both ways for an idling car.

There is one—at the end of the road. He can just make out its headlights, which cast an orange glow over the snow accumulated on asphalt. There’s a dangerous sparkle to it, like ice has already formed; Ben isn’t keen on walking down the street.

Instead, he does his best to jerk his head, to nod at the driver and—after a very long moment where Ben isn’t at all sure if he’s been noticed—the car kicks into gear.

The alpha breathes a sigh of relief and sags just a little bit, letting his shoulders slump and his chest dip. He re-positions the woman in his arms, who coos only soft objections.

“Shh,” he whispers to her, wishing he had a free hand to pat her hair. “You’re alright. We’re going home, okay? I’m taking you home.”

The taxi pulls up alongside the shoulder, classic yellow exterior chipped and scratched in places. Ben might have objected on a more snobby kind of day—called his own car—but today he simply coaxes the door open with two fingers and dips awkwardly into the vehicle.

“I can’t—” he huffs, shifting her so she sits up across the scuffed-faux-leather back seat, “—even get into a car properly.”

He huffs again, loud expression of frustration making a vein in his temple surge; he clamors into the back after he settles her in, folding his too-large body to sit alongside her.

He pulls the door shut and mutters his address at the driver, who raises both eyebrows in judgement. The partition rolls up almost automatically—before the ride even begins—as if the driver doesn’t want to even begin to discover what’s going on between the couple in his car.

The taxi pulls away, sleek streets passing them on either side, and Ben takes the first opportunity in a long while to breathe a sigh of relief.

She’s here: she’s really here. They’re mates—at least, for now they are.

The bonding hormones seem to be doing her good. She can’t feel his emotions, and he can’t feel hers—he’s not even sure where that urban legend ever got started—but the oxytocin running through her veins has done lots to calm and reassure her.

He clears his throat, as quietly as he can. “How are you feeling?”

Her head rolls from staring out the window to instead face him. The back of it rests against a surprisingly plush looking headrest. She blinks, slowly; a small, dumb little smile forms on her lips.

“Okay, then?” he asks.

She only closes her eyes.

Small hands play idly at her belly, stroking in the slow, rounded motions of a doting mother. He purrs, instinctively, without a second thought.

Ben finds that he moves closer to her, she moves closer to him and, before either of them knows it, she’s resting her head on his left shoulder.

He extends a hand, shakily, to cover her smaller one. She stills, just for a moment, before flipping her hand over and grasping at his.

Thin fingers wrap around one of his.

It’s just a simple, gentle touch—the most skin-to-skin contact he’s had in months—and he, too, slumps into the lumpy leather seat to rest.

They’re going home.

 

* * *

 

 

Ben hops out of the taxi when they arrive to pay the meter; the driver refuses to roll down the partition. Instead, the man simply rolls down his window a teensy crack—the alpha pushes the bill through it, awkwardly, watching it fall into the driver’s lap.

The window gets cranked up the very next moment. Apparently, the cabbie isn’t too eager to deal with him for a second longer than he must. Ben has that effect on people—he knows that. Alphas aren’t exactly embraced by society: they’re only tolerated.

He remembers something he learned in a nonverbal communication seminar in college: how alphas are perceived as task attractive, but not particularly socially attractive nor physically attractive—except by omegas. Omegas, meanwhile, are perceived as physically attractive but not particularly task attractive—to anyone. To alphas, of course, they’re also socially attractive.

Betas, though: those are the privileged few. They enjoy inter-designation interaction and are commonly perceived as all three types of attractive. Individual preference still varies, of course, but betas enjoy a certain kind of privilege that the other two designations do not. For instance, alphas are disproportionately stopped and frisked, arrested, and convicted—even when comparing against the very same crimes committed by betas. Omegas, meanwhile, are disproportionately affected by domestic violence, by workplace discrimination, and are rarely represented or given voice in the media.

There are no rules—no laws—against any designations holding public office, or holding down certain jobs, but the social veil is thin: its prejudice is clear.

Ben sighs heavily as he unlocks the door to retrieve the woman still in the taxicab.

The driver clearly wants nothing more than to speed away, and at this point Ben is happy to oblige.

He wants her inside—warm and safe—and sooner is better.

He steadies himself, glancing down to make sure he has a stable foothold, before leaning into the car to reach an arm under her. The other arm wraps around her shoulders, and together they work to heave her up and into his grasp again.

He holds her securely against his chest and whacks the door shut with a hip.

The taxi speeds off with an alarming squeak, just as he predicted.

Ben walks the short distance to the callbox.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, quietly, not wanting to disturb her in her sleepy state, “I have to put you down.”

He moves to try, but her knees start to give out like jelly.

“Please,” he says, a little more desperate, wrapping one arm around her waist to support her.

She whines, loudly, and shivers.

“I know,” he says, quickly punching in his access code, “I know. I’m sorry.”

The door unlocks with a loud, metallic click that resonates through the air. Ben whips the door open and, without taking a backwards glance at the snow falling behind them, escorts her into the building.

Rey trembles on spindly legs, knobby knees hardly holding her up. She’s tired, docile—no doubt from the rush of hormones—and Ben finds himself slightly scared by what she might do when the rush of feelings finally wears off. For now, though, he needs to get her into his apartment.

He scoops her up again, clutches her to his chest, and makes his way up the walk-up staircase.

He hadn’t been expecting her to call him when he left for work. _Obviously_. As a result, his apartment is a mess. An empty carton of eggs lays out on the counter from the morning’s breakfast. Unwashed piles of bowls, plates, and silverware lay stacked and forgotten in the sink. Her bedding, too—the soft sheets and blankets and pillows from the nesting kit he’d once had—lay on the floor of his bedroom where he last left them.

And they’re caked in cum.

 _Christ_ , he thinks to himself, cringing hard at how pathetic he’s managed to become. He should’ve done better; if he was going to try so hard to get her back, shouldn’t he have prepared for her?

He’s kicking himself when he finally reaches the door to the apartment. There, he sets her down again in much the same way as before, unlocking the door with his free hand.

“Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed, “it’s a bit of a mess.”

The omega says nothing.

He opens and shuts the entryway quickly, locking and double-bolting it; he can’t afford the prospect of intruders. Not anymore. Not with an omega and pups on the way.

Ben picks her up again and carries her gently to the bedroom. There, he deposits her in bed, fluffing one of the pillows around her head. He pulls up the thin sheet that he sleeps with until it’s tucked snugly around her shoulders.

She turns, instinctively, on one side. She tries to curl into the fetal position—typical for an omega—but her rounded belly prevents her from pulling her knees to her chest.

Still, she’s the image of contentedness as he promises to bring her more things for the nest.

Ben runs around the apartment, desperate to find anything even remotely soft that she can use as bedding.

He swipes the clean hand towels and oven mitts from the drawers in the kitchen; he removes the clean bathroom towels from where he’d left them in his in-unit dryer. He clears the couch off, grabbing its thick quilt, and even—for a moment—considers ripping up the insides of the cushions. Anything so long as she gets the soft, warm bedding she needs.

When he returns to the bedroom, though, he finds an omega who’s fast asleep.

She’s where he left her, curled up on her side, though one pillow now lines and supports her back. Her hands clutch at her belly, one underneath and one resting over top her hip.

He stares, quietly, for a long moment.

When he inches forward, he avoids every squeaky panel of flooring. He deposits the materials behind her, there for her use whenever she wakes up and wants them.

Then he steps back, equally silent, and watches her chest rise and fall.

 _Home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update or so may be especially slow (2 or 3 weeks, possibly?) due to a round of midterms and a spring break trip. Sorry :(


End file.
